The Holmes Family Tree
by K.Lynx
Summary: Despite the eccentric moods and shroud of mystery, Doctor Watson would swear he was privy to everything he needed to know about his roommate's personal life. That is, until a certain arrival proved he might know nothing at all - about Sherlock or himself.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: So. It's been a hot minute, hasn't it? Life has this way of just ruining plans and what not. But! I am trying to make a comeback, and this story has been waiting for years to get some exposure! To avoid any hassle or being called out, this will be a disclaimer for this whole story._

 _I do not own any of the show's characters and any deviation from the story line is my own invention. There may be some slight OOC action, but it can't be helped if my story has a much longer past than what is actually written. I do not make any monetary gain from this, as this is purely for my own amusement (and hopefully, yours)._

 _Oh! P.S. This in no way means I'm not going back to the Supernatural fic. I am simply making a mark on here again, and - let's be honest - the Holmes are not exactly the waiting patiently type. ;)_

* * *

The brunette waited for the door to open, a scarf loosely wrapped around her throat as she stomped her feet to get the snow off. When the hinges finally moved, she allowed a smile to adorn her face. "Oh, darling!" an older woman greeted, opening the door wider to allow her inside. "Oh, Lee, it's been far too long."

"How are you, Mrs. Hudson?" the brunette asked, embracing the woman and placing a kiss on her temple. "Is he in?"

"Yes, yes," she replied after pulling away from the hug to secure the door. "He is in one of his moods. Please do tell me you'll help prevent further bullets from damaging my walls."

Westley laughed, removing her scarf and enveloping it around her right forearm. "I will take care of it. May I come by to your room later this evening for tea?"

The smile on Mrs. Hudson's face brightened. "Of course, dear! You are always welcome." Westley returned the smile and started up the stairs. Her features were stoic by the time she reached the entrance to her brother's flat.

Sherlock was well aware of her arrival, she knew, and she took a deep breath before opening the door. Like she imagined, he stood in the middle of the living area, hands clasped behind his back. "Westley," he greeted, not a muscle of his making any indication of movement. She knew better though.

The instant her foot crossed the threshold, he uncoiled and a fist launched itself towards her chin. He always started this way and she immediately deflected it with the scarf-wrapped arm, spinning to find herself facing his back, if only for a split second. Sherlock's grin provoked one of her own as they sparred into the living room, jumping over the furniture and catching objects they tipped over. Yet their limbs never stopped attacking each other as they pivoted into the kitchen, fists and kicks flying towards each other, barely grazing their clothing.

They circled around, returning into the living room and before it registered, they were grappling on the floor. Westley's lithe body had the advantage for a few moments, her legs contorting around Sherlock's neck when he managed to get her arm in a lock. They heaved, pausing and examining their predicament. "Well," Sherlock gasped, the grin still on his face. "You have not lost your touch."

"Neither have you, old man," Westley retorted, her giggling cut short by his hyperextending her arm. He earned less air as a punishment, his already deep breathing turning into wheezing. "Great welcome party."

"The best, as always," her brother managed to gasp, slowly applying more pressure to her already stretched muscle. She gritted her teeth, momentarily loosening her hold on his neck before clamping down, although with less strength. He relaxed his own vice grip, if only enough to provide some relief. "What are you doing back?" Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps caused them both to freeze.

"What the hell?" a voice called. The siblings looked at each other and both tapped out, their limbs falling apart as each lay in their spot, trying to catch their breath. Westley craned her neck to find a blond at the entrance, shopping bags hanging from his arms. "What the bloody hell?"

Sherlock and Westley sat up slowly, the brother rubbing his neck while the sister rotated her arm at the shoulder. "John, I do not believe you've had the pleasure of meeting my sister," Sherlock said nonchalantly. The detective stood, offering Westley a hand. She gripped his fingers and rose to her feet, wiping at her jeans and coat after releasing his hand. "Westley, this is my roommate. And friend. John Watson."

Westley raised an eyebrow at her brother as she removed her leather jacket along with the scarf on her arm, tossing them onto the recliner. "A friend," she mused, a twitch at her lips. She turned her attention to John now. "Since when are you friends with military?" John blinked, looking between the two. "As a matter of fact, since when do you have a need for roommates?" Sherlock waved a hand at her, turning his back to them and picking up his violin. "Westley Holmes," she said, rolling her eyes at her brother and turning her full attention to John now. "He never speaks about me to anyone, don't worry. Only a handful of individuals know of the consulting detective's sister, the majority being family. Let me help you with that." Westley took half of the grocery bags from the still stunned John and weaved her way towards the kitchen.

"When did you plan on telling me this?" she heard John confront Sherlock. "I thought I was, as you said, your friend."

"It was irrelevant to anything having to do with myself at any given moment, and it had zero relevance to our work," Sherlock replied, his fingers nimbly pressing at the violin strings as his other hand guided the bow. "Now it is relevant and now you know. I fail to see the problem here."

John threw his hands in the air, a scowl on his features as he turned and headed to the kitchen. "I apologize for the scene," Westley said, already starting on putting away the groceries. "It's a tradition of ours, sparring upon meeting each other after long periods. A little sibling rivalry, in that area, so to speak." She gave John a bright smile. "Now, army doctor, correct? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The man's mouth dropped open. "How – I don't even have a limp anymore!" he said, throwing his hands in the air once again.

"The state of this apartment is a vast improvement compared to his other holes. If I ventured a climb upstairs, I'm sure it would support my point. Military. Dusty cane," she continued, jutting her chin towards the side of the fireplace where the mentioned item rested. She grabbed the bags he had brought in and began placing the items where they belong. "You rubbed at your leg once while trying to process our encounter, like an old habit, which means you must've suffered an injury. Did Sherlock help you figure out it was psychosomatic?" she asked, inspecting each empty bag before folding them up and stuffing them in a drawer. "Despite not looking tan, there are still tan marks peeking through, so either Afghan or Iraq. Doctor because the only way you could get into Sherlock's good graces and remain for so long is if you were not only a good roommate, but a good partner. He hates the medical examiners that work with Lestrade, especially Anderson, so I may have taken a bit of a leap to say doctor. Though it seems my leap wasn't too far fetched."

"God another," he sighed, his fingers working on his knotted forehead. "And Afghanistan. And now that we're in the business of personal questions, may I ask how it's possible I've never seen you before?"

"Travels," Westley said, opening the fridge again and studying intently before pulling out ingredients. "Hungry?" John blinked before giving a tentative nod. "Sherlock?"

A flourish of music was his answer and she smiled, pulling out extra. "I haven't seen you once, though," John continued, resting a hand on his hip and the other still massaging his forehead. "And I've met Mycroft. He never mentioned you either. So you must live out of London. It seems strange still, that I wouldn't see your name in some form, being Holmes. Where do you live?"

Westley turned to the cabinets now, pulling out bowls, a whisk, a round cookie-cutter, a baking tray, and muffin tins. "Ah, well, that's a bit of a difficult question," she said, waving at the air. "I just never can seem to stay put in one place for long. So my home is everywhere, so to speak." She smiled at him again, setting herself to mixing flour, salt and butter. She knew he was watching her, picking up on the fact she avoided most of what he said. "Sherlock always lets me stay when I visit home for more than a week. Living with my parents isn't exactly conducive to the way of life that I am accustomed to."

John remained standing at his spot for a few moments before pulling out a chair and taking a seat. "How long will you be visiting, exactly?" he asked, trying to keep an amicable tone.

"Don't worry, I'll be taking Sherlock's room," she said with a cluck of her tongue and a wink. At this, a loud _twang_ was heard from the living room. "Do not act surprised, Sherlock," Westley called out. "You barely even sleep."

"But it is my room," her brother said, materializing in the kitchen entrance. "My belongings are in there."

Westley rolled her eyes before focusing her attention back on the food. "John, would you please get me some cold water?" she asked, turning her back to them to turn on the oven. "Sherlock, cut strips," she said, placing a roll of baking parchment on the table. "And are you saying you will be leaving your baby sister to sleep on a couch? A recliner at that?" she asked, a hurt expression on her face. "You insinuate this as I stand over this meal I'm preparing for you with all the undying love and adoration of a younger sibling?"

There was a twitch under Sherlock's left eye before he quietly sat down and began cutting strips of paper, dabbing them with butter as he went, and placing them in the muffin tin. John watched the interchange with wide eyes. This was clearly not the first time Sherlock had done this, and John would've stood frozen in shock, simply staring at his flatmate, if Westley hadn't extended her hand out towards him. He snapped out of it, handing her the requested water. The sister felt his eyes on her after as she worked the water into the batter. "Now, I understand you are still running your little detective act," Westley continued as she studied the batter, satisfied with the consistency, wrapped it in clingfilm, and tossed it into the fridge. "I will not interrupt unless you invite me in, of course. And if Doctor Watson accepts as well."

Her hands grabbed a bowl and emptied half a bag of breadcrumbs in it, along with sausage meat, bacon, ground mace, pepper, sage, and a pinch of salt. "If I am not invited, I will find other ways to entertain myself, of that I am sure," she mused as she blended the ingredients together by hand. She lifted the bowl, examining the mixture before nodding and heading to the sink to wash her hands. "I do request, as always, to not be questioned as to my whereabouts or activities."

"Should we be worried?" John asked Sherlock, earning a raised eyebrow from Westley. "I mean, I am sure you can take care of yourself. I was witness to that," he said, clearing his throat afterwards. "Yet, you make it sound… dangerous."

"You are aware who my brothers are," she said, a sly grin on her features. "While they pursue activities that benefit the community, a majority of my activities are… more for pleasure than moral victories."

"Westley," Sherlock snapped, his eyes sharp on her.

The brunette rolled her eyes. "All right, I am making it just a smidge melodramatic, aren't I?" she said, grinning as she cracked two eggs into a bowl and whisked them. "Then again, I learned that from you, dear brother." She turned to John. "My activities do not involve politics or crimes, Doctor Watson."

"John, please," he interrupted, taking his seat again as he watched Sherlock place the last strip of baking parchment into the muffin tin. "I am not in the practice, and I am not a soldier."

Westley checked her watch before pulling out the shortcrust pastry dough. "Right," she said after a moment as she rolled the dough in her hands. "I love stories, John," she continued, drawing a cabinet open and pulling out a rolling pin. "Titillating tales."

"Female follies," Sherlock muttered under his breath, earning himself a smack on the arm with the rolling pin. "You know I am right."

"Men are just as gossipy as women, darling brother," she said, wagging the rolling pin at him before setting to the task of spreading the dough. "My thrill is also, in a way, in the chase," she said, her eyes sparkling. "While my brothers work to solve riddling problems, though, I work on exposing them to the public. It's a buzz, honestly, untangling the lies from the truth, following the breadcrumb clues. There have been times I've crossed paths with my brothers and we've found our ways to come to civil agreements, so to speak."

John offered her the cookie cutter before she said a thing, and she flashed him another full smile of hers. "That is why I travel. Yes, there are a lot of great stories here in London, but oh, what you can discover in other places!" Sherlock began taking the cut out pastries and placing them in the muffin tin, John helping him after a few seconds. "It is the reason why I cannot stay in one place." She shooed their hands away, sliding the muffin tin close to herself. She placed the last of the circles into the muffin tip, grabbing a handful of breadcrumbs and filling the bottom of each tin with them. "You might have read some of my work, even. I am aware you have a blog yourself," she continued off-handedly, grabbing the meat mixture and stuffing it in each tin. "You understand the art of creating the perfect story, the skill of portraying the right tone, selecting the perfect word to describe a detail, a particular act. The writing aspect has plenty of challenges, but it can get a bit dull at times. I don't care much about the chronicling as much as Sherlock does. The time spent telling can be spent doing instead. It is part of the job, though, so I endure."

Westley brushed egg over some of the circle pastries, patting it down over the filling, pinching the edges to close them up properly. "It seems I understand a bit better as to why you do not reside in London, if your job is to expose what happens behind the curtains. I have never seen the name Holmes in any newspaper, journal, or blog online, though," John said, his brow furrowed. "I am sure I would've caught that."

"Oh, I use my grandmother's name, on my mother's side. A tipping of the hat, so to speak, to my role model. Not the surname, though. I cannot risk having someone connect me to my family," Westley replied, brushing the top of each pastry with egg and sprinkling sesame seeds over them. Afterwards, she inspected each muffin tin individually before standing straight with a satisfied nod. She picked it up and twirled, opening the oven and placing the tin carefully in the center before shutting the oven door. "Allison, was her name. Feisty woman. Father insists I am more her daughter than my mother's," she laughed with a shrug. "Archer because I am a Sagittarius. And because alliteration is a fun little thing to me."

"Allison Archer? The acclaimed international journalist Allison Archer?" John stated in a flat tone, though his eyes were wide. "But there's a picture! A redheaded, green-eyed woman, if I recall. Who is that?"

"Oh, that's me alright. Just… with a few adjustments. And seeing how there are many people who prefer I keep _some_ secrets," Westley trailed off with a giggle as she piled up the used dishes and placed them in the sink. "It keeps the real me under the radar, so to speak. Many people only know me by that look. I am careful as to who I expose myself to. As I mentioned before, I mustn't be linked to my family, if it can be helped. But, I plan on taking a much needed vacation for now. Do some exploring for my own fun, rather than for the journals."

"Please," John said, standing from his seat and grabbing her shoulders, pulling her away from the sink. "Allow me. You're already cooking for us." Westley smiled and turned to Sherlock.

"He's a keeper," she said to her brother.

"I'm not gay," John immediately added.

Westley gave him a curious look. "I didn't think it," she replied, before taking a seat opposite of Sherlock. "Bring me up to speed." Her brother grumbled and rose from his own chair, practically stomping back to the living room and picking up his violin, playing a violent tune. "Ah, right. I forgot Mrs. Hudson stated he was in his moods. It means there really is nothing." Westley turned in her seat, watching John finish the last of the dishes. "How would you like to accompany me for a stroll, John? It has been quite a while since I have been home and with this chill, I miss the coffee down at Speedy's something terrible. It would go brilliantly with the pork pies."

John looked towards Sherlock to find the detective in his chair, eyes set on his sister. "Will he –" he started, before shaking his head. "You know what? Sure. Why not? I still have my coat on." Westley rose, walking into the living area and snatching up her coat and scarf. She circled her brother, studying him before leaning down and giving him a peck on the check. John's eyebrow rose when Sherlock didn't move.

"Please keep an eye on the oven. Do not touch it, though," she warned, her eyes darkening for a moment before she looked up at the army doctor with clear, blue eyes and a charming smile.

The pair walked down the stairs, John behind her. "Mrs. Hudson! Pork pies are in the oven! I'll be stepping out quickly to bring us some coffee," Westley cried out before opening the door and striding out into the cold air. She took a deep breath, shivered, and then turned to John as he closed the door. "I picked the worst time to come back, I swear." She gave him a grin before they started down the block.

"You know Mrs. Hudson as well?" John asked with surprise.

"Well, she has known Sherlock longer than you have," she pointed out. "What with her husband and all. We met once or twice."

The man gave a small affirming sound before falling silent, his head bent slightly. "You seem to be able to handle Sherlock quite well," he started again, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. "I've never, well, it's a bloody shock to me, to be honest." Westley laughed, her head tipping back slightly. John's eyes feasted on the sight, a strange flip of the stomach causing him to look away.

"I'm the baby. I'm the only girl. And we _are_ only a year apart, so we were very close as children, unlike Mycroft," she explained, rubbing her hands together before pulling on her scarf to tighten it around her neck. "We each know what makes us tick, so to speak. So, I try not to push his buttons and he tries not to push mine. It's quite a simple arrangement. Mycroft does not have the patience to compromise like we do. He stresses too much, with his position and all."

Westley gave a shrug. "But, he listens to you. He actually _listens_ ," John insisted, shaking his head and giving a choked out laugh. "I have never, in all my days of knowing him, seen anything like it."

"He seems quite fond of you and your opinion, John," she said, feeling the snow bite through her shoes. "I have never known Sherlock to have a friend. I've never known anyone that would put up with Sherlock willingly! You are clearly someone special to stick with my brother this long."

It was John's turn to shrug now. "We compromise," he finally replied as the shop came into view.

They entered the cafe and placed an order to go, standing beside each other as they waited. Moments later, the duo stepped out of the restaurant, swapping stories of their travels. Neither noticed the way their bodies gravitated towards each other and their arms brushed every couple of yards. "And that may be my favourite thing about India." Westley noticed John's creased forehead as they reached the flat's front door. "What are you trying to figure out?" she asked, pausing at the porch. John looked up at her, blinking.

"Ah, well," he stuttered, his free hand rubbing at his neck. "You and Sherlock are alike, in a lot of ways," he started, shuffling his weight from one leg to the other. "Yet, here we are." He made a motion with his hand between them. "Having an actual conversation. That doesn't involve murder. Like normal people. Don't get me wrong, I do talk to Sherlock. Sort of. Our conversations revolve around whatever case we are on, if we have any. Or arguments about his lack of social skills."

Again, a laugh made its way out of Westley's lips as she placed a hand on John's arm. "That is because I like people, unlike Sherlock. I find personalities interesting and as intricate as intellect. I also don't think everyone is a blithering idiot - most of the time, anyway - which means I am willing to interact with them on the daily." She turned to the door and pushed it open, holding it wide for John to get through.

Once inside, she locked it behind them and went up the flight of stairs with the army doctor close behind her. Sherlock stood with a fencing sword in hand, jabbing at an invisible opponent. "Down," Westley called out as she and the army doctor walked in. "Ah! Great, you heard me," the sister smiled when she found Mrs. Hudson at the kitchen table. "I got you your favourite," she added, grabbing a lidded cup and placing it before the old woman.

Westley rounded the table and headed to the oven, pulling out the muffin tray. She covered the baking tray with parchment and gently pulled out each pot pie, spacing them out on the tray. Using the last of the whisked egg, she brushed the pot pies all around and after making sure not a spot was left dry, placed the pot pies back in the oven. "It is so nice having you around again, Lee," Mrs. Hudson said, clasping the woman's hands in hers as Westley took a seat beside her. "Each time I see you, you've grown more beautiful."

The brunette blushed, squeezing Mrs. Hudson's fingers gently. "Now, don't go on flattering me. There is only room for Sherlock's ego in this flat," she teased, earning a huff from her brother. The ding of the oven paused the women's talk and John helped Westley with plates to set the pies on.

"Alright. Come on, Sherlock," Westley called as she set plates on the table, along with a bowl of piccalilli. She took her seat next to Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock and John took the places across from them. "You first, Mrs. Hudson."

The four of them had a lovely dinner, though Sherlock remained silent aside from the occasional grunt and fact correction. "Right then," Mrs. Hudson said, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "I must be off. Lee, dear, please take the time to visit me tomorrow, will you? It's so nice to finally have another feminine touch here."

The young woman laughed softly. "I don't know how much femininity I can bring to the flat," Westley said, standing as Mrs. Hudson did. "But, I will visit you tomorrow for tea."

The youngest Holmes walked the landlady to the door, kissing her cheek goodbye, before walking back into the kitchen. "I have terrible jet lag," she said, stifling a yawn. "I'll be retiring to my room now."

"My bedroom," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms suddenly.

"Right. Your bedroom that is mine now. Ta, dears." Westley flashed them both a smile before pivoting. "Ah, don't forget to clean up," she added, waving a finger over her shoulder. "Good night."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: I scheduled updates for this story every Friday (Current A/N: Haaaaa, the optimism), but I realized I had reviews (!) and thought I'd address a few things._

 _To answer Dreamer4life16's question, this story starts practically at the start of Series 2. If I_ _ **had**_ _to set a more concrete timeline for it, I would guesstimate it takes place after Sherlock's rescued Irene, the start of January 2011._

 _I started this fanfic - if my memory serves me right - around 2015, before the special & Series 4 were released. [In other words, my prediction to my Sherlock-loving friends of the "other one" being a sister was on point!] So my story is based on what was released up to 2015. Obviously, there is new information to take into consideration, so even though I have about 13 chapters written out for this fanfic, I will be forced to go back and tweak them. [I also might revise this first chapter, seeing how I'm picking up some slight inconsistencies. Ah, the beauty of forgotten writing.] _

_This was to be a mix of AU & canon, which you may notice in the following chapters, though I did try to stick to the Sherlock series as much as possible. That is not to say some of it may change now as I'm rereading/rewriting!_

 _Aside from this, all the other inquiries will be addressed as the story goes by. ;)_

* * *

Three hours passed since Westley stated she was going to sleep. Yet here she was, fingers rhythmically pounding against her chest. She filled her cheeks with air before exhaling slowly. Lists were ticked off in her head, schedules rearranged. Her legs swung over the bed and planted on the ground quietly, toes wiggling on the wood floors. She blew air into each cheek, a soft puffing noise escaping each time as she listened for any noise.

She dressed and pushed the door open, taking a single step. A silhouette sat still on the red couch, violin in hand though his fingers stayed away from the strings. "Are you going out?"

"I thought you might be sleeping in John's room," Westley said, lingering by the bedroom door. "I know you hate that settee."

"I tried, he kicked me out," he said, now plucking at the strings. "Where are you going?"

Westley took the seat opposite of him. "I can't sleep," she replied instead.

Sherlock stood now, grabbing the bow resting on the table and playing a rich, deliberate melody. His eyes had fully scanned her outfit, lingering for half-a-second too long on the steel-toe boots. "Do you still play?" he asked as he continued, closing his eyes as he walked around the living area without hitting a single item. "You were close to my skills, last time I heard you."

"Mm," Westley hummed with a slight shrug. "When the mood strikes. I believe we have an agreement, on how this works, don't we?" she continued, though a hint of her annoyance was creeping through her tone. "I go out. I come back. You go out. You come back. Neither of us questions the other about whereabouts or things of the sort. Or am I to believe you will take up the Mycroft mantle and follow me?"

"Follow you?" The sibling scoffed, lowering the violin and bow. " _Ich wäre nie so dumm._ "

" _Maravilhoso,_ _irmão,_ " Westley replied, placing her hands on the chair's arms and pushing herself to her feet. She grabbed her coat, sliding it on. " _Feliz que você entender_."

"I'll accompany you," he said instead, placing his instrument on the table and grabbing his own coat. "It's bloody boring here anyway. John has called it an early night and no interesting cases." The sister tried to argue, her mouth opening and shutting multiple times. "It's been ages, Lee."

She scrounged up her nose. "Coming from you, it sounds like an insult. Please continue calling me by my full name, if you please," she said, pacing in a small circle. Westley finally gave a sigh before nodding. "Fine. You are paying everything." With that, the youngest Holmes walked out, followed by a smiling Sherlock. "That includes the pints." At this Sherlock winced, remembering the last time the two went out drinking.

A quick dinner and three hours of bouncing through pubs, the pair of siblings were in a pleasant, booze-induced state. "Right then," Westley said, pointing a finger at a bloke sitting in a corner. "Go."

Sherlock turned to the man, blue eyes narrowed. "Accountant. Currently in the midst of a divorce. Addict. Five years of on and off, at least, which is the reason for the separation along with the current unemployment. Cat at home, probably a stray that he feeds his own meager meals to since his money goes to his vices."

"What are you forgetting?" Westley asked, taking a swig of beer. His eyes turned to her sharply. "Oh don't act stupid. It's the main reason for the divorce!"

His face tightened, eyes shifting over the man sitting alone. "It's… He's…," he said, shaking his head a bit and refocusing his attention. Westley knew the alcohol was in full effect. "He's suicidal. Inner wrist dotted with blood on left side; keeps scratching the right side, from the scabs formed."

Sherlock looked back at his sister with a triumphant look that quickly dissipated when he saw her expression. "And gay," she added, setting down the glass. "He hasn't looked at a single woman, not even the waitress with the low cut that leaned forward whilst talking. But when the American frat boy crossed his path." Sherlock thumped his forehead, teeth gritting. "And the soccer lad. He ignored the tattooed biker, though, so he has a type."

"Pub populated by youths and a bathroom to the right of his field of view, of course," Sherlock hissed, grabbing his pint and downing it in one go. He exhaled sharply. "Right. I pick that one."

Westley called over the waitress. "Two more pints, dear," she said with a smile before turning her attention to the woman her brother pointed to. "Escort," she immediately started out, her fingertip pressing against her temple. "Mother of two. Both taken away from her. Boyfriend sells her out. Used to beat her to control her, but now he uses drugs. Heroin, by the weight loss. Beatings weren't good for business. Obviously _not_ a natural blonde, only that's just too easy." The waitress came back, dropping off the pints and winking at Sherlock. The sibling rolled her eyes and continued her assessment. "It does help with the rest of her outfit, though. Simple pearl necklace and diamond ring, except they're fake – help her appear high class, charges more. She was simple. You won't find a thing."

Sherlock scrutinized the woman, trying to find anything the youngest Holmes may have missed. "She's obsessive about hygiene," he stated, jabbing a finger in the air. "Her nails, hands and feet, neatly trimmed and polished. Teeth whitened with strips. It shows her as well kept, despite the drugs. This is a compulsion all her own, barely needing encouragement from the boyfriend."

"Dammit," Westley sighed, picked up her glass and drained it completely.

Another two hours after and they were stomping to the next bar. Westley paid the waitress, on the sly to add shots to both their drinks. Their effect became obvious when the game of deduction was cut short as Sherlock described, a little bit too loud, the erectile dysfunction of a man and the unsatisfied girlfriend that was cheating with the best mate. The man's posse, including the best friend, came after Westley's brother. The girlfriend and _her_ friends came after Westley when the Holmes sister noted that the best mate was just as unsatisfied with the girlfriend and offered to do a better job.

Fortunately, no bones were broken and no blood was spilled. At least, not enough that either sibling could recall. Both Holmes walked away unscathed, although the same could not be said for Westley's vest as it now sported a rip where a button used to be.

An hour after, the pair was close to home. "Right. Ah. This is it. Here we are," Westley slurred. Her arm was thrown over her brother's shoulder as was his over hers. They tripped over the sidewalk, barely managing to maintain themselves upright as they walked up the porch steps. "I told you we'd make it. You owe me again!"

"Quiet, quiet," Sherlock mumbled, sticking the key roughly into the lock and turning it. "We mustn't wake John."

"Or Mrs. Hudson," Westley added as they shut the door behind them. "Ladies first, brother dear." The brunette managed a couple of steps before stumbling, breaking her fall with her hands. "Shit."

Sherlock snorted, pushing the back of his hand against his mouth to muffle the laughter. "Idiot," he said, picking up her and barely managing not to topple backwards down the stairs. "Right. Onwards!" he cried, earning a shushing sound from Westley. "Oh. Quiet. Right, right."

The pair lurched over the flat's threshold. In the room, Westley stumbled over the coffee table while Sherlock fell into the settee. "I hate this thing," Sherlock whined, struggling to get out of his scarf and coat. "Why do I even think this acceptable fashion?"

"Idiot," Westley mimicked him, giggling and turning in her spot, hitting another table with her hip and almost toppling a lamp over. "Dammit. I forget we shouldn't. Do the drinking game thing, like we do." A hiccup rose from her lips and when she tried to sit on the red couch, she kicked over a pile of books that knocked down a tray with a dish and utensils. "Ah, fuck."

Footsteps came from overhead and John's sleepy form soon filled the door. "What in bloody hell?" he asked, rubbing his eyes before inspecting the Holmes siblings who sat blinking up at him. He paused, sniffing the air. "Are you… are you two drunk?"

"Completely," Westley answered, sliding down on the couch while trying to pull off her own leather jacket before standing and swaying on her feet. "It was not our intention to wake you." Sherlock sat up sharply from the settee, almost shooting off the seat with the motion. "We were going to ask you to join us. Well, I was anyway, but it was late when we left here and Sherlock said you were already in bed. Is there tea? I want tea. Maybe some biscuits. I can probably bake some!"

"No, no, no," John said, grabbing Westley as she headed into the kitchen. Westley blinked, looking into his gray eyes with a hint of a frown. "No cooking. You'll set us all aflame, genius or not."

Sherlock rose from his seat on unstable legs before stiffly walking himself to his bedroom. "Oi!" Westley called out, ignoring John and trying to make a grab at Sherlock even with the distance between them. "Don't you dare, Sherlock." The detective didn't bother to acknowledge her, but kept his crooked path, righting it enough to keep from smacking into the door before closing it. "Ah, arse."

John exhaled, rubbing his temple with a free hand while attempting to keep Westley upright with the other. "Okay then. Off you go. You'll sleep in my room today."

"You are indecent!" Westley cried and the door to Sherlock's room immediately opened, bleary eyes studying the living area. "Sherlock, your Watson is saying I'll be spending the night in his room, like some prostitute." Her brother looked between both for a moment.

"Excellent."

The door slammed shut and Westley gave another cry. "The sod," she growled, pushing up her sleeves before trying to step towards the room. "What does he think he is?"

"Drunk and tired," John said, grabbing her again. "I won't sleep in there with you, if it makes you feel better." He led her away, up to the second bedroom and the woman gave up. Westley blinked, looking around the room once she was sat on the bed. "Just, here," John sighed, kneeling and removing her boots. "That'll help you sleep better."

Westley began removing her vest, followed with unbuttoning her shirt. The simple action took longer than usual as her fingers stumbled over each other. When she saw John turn away, she laughed. "Come on, doctor. You've seen this before," she said with a playful smile. "I don't believe for your second you are like my brother with his celibacy."

"I'll, uh, be headed downstairs now," he cleared his throat, heading to his closet and pulling out a pillow and a blanket. "See you in the morning."

"We can share the bed, you know," Westley pointed out. "It's quite a big mattress, and I know you're a trustworthy man. I only screamed earlier to see if Sherlock would get out of the room." John blinked, his lips parting in an attempt to give an answer but failing. "Don't be shy. I don't bite, unless asked," Westley said with a wink and a laugh. When he cleared his throat, she shook her head. "That was a joke as well. We're all adults here. It'll be a civil sleepover."

"Right. Okay," he hesitated, taking a step, then another, towards the bed. Westley gave the mattress to her left a pat before going back to removing her vest and shirt. "Would you like to borrow a shirt?"

Westley smiled and undid her jeans. "I'd appreciate that, yes." Pulling off her clothes, she tossed it all aside from under the sheets, sighing happily. John handed her a long shirt of his, still keeping his eyes from her, and she slipped it on before settling back into the pillows. The doctor made his way around to the other side, shifting awkwardly before sliding into bed. "Good night, John," Westley yawned, turning her back to him and wrapping the covers tighter around herself as her eyes closed of their own accord.

"Good night, Westley."


	3. Chapter 3

A groan came from under the covers. Slowly, the form of the brunette was exposed, and she pulled herself into a sitting position. Her fingers pressed against her eyes, hiding them from the rays of sun spilling through the open curtain. Wild, dark curls fell over her shoulders and framed her features as she stood, stretching her arms towards the ceiling then down to her toes. With a satisfied sigh she walked downstairs, ignoring any other clothing but the long shirt.

"Good morning," Westley yawned, pulling her hair into a messy bun. Sherlock and John looked up, faces stoic. Both acted as if this was another regular morning in the flat. "Did you make breakfast?" The only source of nourishment were the tea cups on the tables. "Right. Of course not." She sighed, heading into the kitchen. "Oh for Christ sakes, Sherlock, I cleaned this out yesterday before bed!"

"Science brings as much chaos as it does enlightenment, dear sister," the detective said before returning to a book he was holding. "Cook around it."

Westley snarled before turning and setting herself to cook. When she was done, she presented an omelet to John, then took her plate to the settee. "Enjoy, Doctor Watson."

"Where is mine?" Sherlock asked, closing the book and dropping it on the table next to him.

The brunette coolly looked at him. "When you've organized your experiments in a proper fashion that allows use of the kitchen table for its intended purpose, I will cook your meal."

John coughed, eyes wide before thumping himself on the chest twice. "Sherlock?" he managed out. "Sherlock Holmes _cleaning_?" Westley took her time to cut her omelet into small and equal pieces before placing a single bite in her mouth.

"Sherlock William Holmes," the sibling offered, though her eyes now turned to the detective. "Well? Get on it."

The eye twitch came back and Sherlock stood slowly, rigid on his feet, before heading to the kitchen. John turned, watching with a delighted expression. Westley, on the other hand, sat quietly and ate her food without a single glance at her brother. The clink of glass against glass echoed in the living area and fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was back on his seat.

"Science, darling brother," Westley scolded, setting her fork and knife down on her half-finished plate. "Only provides accurate results within a controlled environment." She stood and headed to the kitchen once again, inspecting the table and giving a satisfied nod.

Sherlock's plate was in his hands not even five minutes later and he dug in with gusto. "Did you sleep well, Westley?" he asked as he cut another piece.

"Marvelously. John is a wonderful bedmate," Westley replied and now it was Sherlock that almost choked on his food whilst the doctor stiffened in his seat. "Maybe this could be the new arrangement. This way, you will have your bedroom back." Sherlock shot John a look, and the man quickly shook his head. "Sherlock," Westley warned, an eyebrow raised.

"You slept with my sister?"

"Slept only. Nothing else," Westley said, finishing off her meal. "Now leave John alone."

Her brother remained silent, his eyes studied John in a quick sweeping manner, as if recalling details, before his features relaxed and he ate again. "Bloody hell," John muttered, placing his dish on the table and rubbing his face with his hands. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

"Nonsense," both Holmes replied. John blinked.

"I would rather not inconvenience you like that," Westley said.

Sherlock polished off his plate. "And the arrangement works, doesn't it?"

John looked between both of us. "Are you both out of your bloody mind?"

Westley shrugged while Sherlock picked his book back up and started reading. "Right, I need a shower," Westley announced, going round to pick up Sherlock's plate. "Are you done?" she asked John. He gave a weak nod and she grabbed it as well. "Sherlock. Dishes." Again John looked flabbergasted while Sherlock's eye regained its twitch.

A quick shower made Westley feel like new and after drying and brushing her hair with care, she went back to the living area, dressed in her usual white work shirt, vest, and jeans. "I am bored," she called out, pushing his book aside and dropping onto Sherlock's lap. "Do you think Mycroft will turn me away if I visit?"

Before an answer could be provided, a sharp alert echoed throughout the room. While Sherlock ignored his cellphone and John put his away when he noticed the lack of notification, Westley jumped from Sherlock's knees and smiled wide. "Excellent," she grinned, walking to the suitcase she placed on the corner of the living room. She dragged it to the couch and pulled out articles of clothing, then what looked like doctor's instruments. "Wonderful, wonderful! Exactly what I need on such a dull day."

"New case?" Sherlock asked, flipping a page even though his eyes were on Westley.

The brunette nodded her head before a victory cry flew from her lips. She was holding a small black notebook. "Be back later!" she called out as she flew out the door, yanking her leather jacket off the coat hanger and knocking it over in the process.

When she returned, the moon was high in the sky. Mud covered her from head to toe and the only thing she was wearing was the white dress shirt and her boots. Sherlock was locked in his room and the brunette was greeted by John alone on the couch. "Are you alright, Westley?" he called out, jumping from his seat and leading Westley to the settee.

"I'm splendid!" she said with a sleepy smile. "Just a little dirty. Maybe a little less dressed than how I walked out. And goodness, did I walk today." She tipped over, falling onto the cushion with a little sigh. "Wonderfully fun, though, today."

"Sherlock!" John called out as he checked her pulse whilst studying a deep gash on her temple and the cut on the corner of her mouth. Blood and mud caked both injuries, but they were the only ones. When he used hydrogen peroxide and a cotton ball to clean it, though, he watched as it all simply washed away, leaving behind smooth skin. "What?"

The consulting detective popped his head out of his room and caught sight of the dozing off brunette. "Ah," he said, stepping towards his sister. "It was the farmer after all." Westley managed a smile at her brother. "Of course."

"You knew about this?" John asked, looking at Sherlock then back at Westley before resting his hands on his knees and using them to push himself upright. "Was that for the case as well?" he asked, motioning towards her face.

"Great reason to let a poor girl into your home, don't you think?" she yawned, pushing herself up. "I'm parched." Sherlock turned and went back to his room while Westley retrieved her water, leaning against the frame of the wall on her return. "Why were you two awake?" she asked before taking a drink from the glass.

"We were discussing some previous events," he said, clearing his throat. "So, the farmer?"

Westley gave a wave of the hand, though her eyes were curious on John. "Old news. Last week an old colleague's cousin went missing. They finally decided to ask me instead of putting their faith in London's best. Fixed it." She took John's usual seat now, finishing the water in one go. "Girl is safe at home now. Back to a full wireless connection and a nice warm bed."

"Ah. Wonderful," John said, slapping his knees lightly. "Right. Well, I'll grab a pillow and blanket while you shower." Westley rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, John. Sherlock won't do a thing to you. He was only teasing," she said, rising from the seat and headed to the now gutted travel case. Her back was to Watson when she bent over and the man felt blood rush towards his face, quickly turning away as the youngest Holmes looked through it. "You should see the way he treated an ex of mine, though. I couldn't stop laughing for almost an hour afterwards. My ex didn't find it so funny." She straightened up, hands on her hips and a frown on her lips. "Do you think I could borrow one of your long shirts again?" she asked, holding up a lacy slip. "I usually sleep in this but your shirt is much more comfortable."

The blush which faded returned in full force and John cleared his throat, looking away again. "Yes, no problem," he said, swallowing hard. "I'll get it for you."

The brunette smiled. "You're a dear, John Watson." She headed to the bathroom with only clean undergarments and slipped off the dirty clothes, not bothering to shut the door. As she washed her hair, she heard a soft 'Christ' come from the door and she couldn't help but smirk.

"Ah, shirt's on the door knob," John called out before his footsteps quickly echoed away.

When she finally crawled into bed, she found John at his desk, typing. "Are you updating your blog?" Westley asked, allowing herself the chance to spread her limbs and take the whole of the bed. John gave her a nod without turning around, his eyes on the bright screen. "Why do you only write about Sherlock? You need to give yourself more credit in these. I'm sure that if you weren't involved with him, his job would be much more difficult."

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Nothing interesting happens to me. I only have so many adventures because of Sherlock in the first place."

Westley hummed, closing her eyes and pretending to make a snow angel, relishing the feel of the cool sheets and blanket on her skin. "I don't think that's true. I'm sure as an army doctor, you had many things happen." The clickety-clack of typing stopped and she opened her eyes to see John staring out the window.

"Those aren't adventures," he said softly. "Those are nightmares." Westley sat up, draping her arms over her knees. "Nobody wants to read that. They'd rather hear about a man that was able to deduce a murder simply by looking at a hat or, or a footprint."

"I would disagree with that," Westley said, running her fingers through her hair thoughtfully. "What we do, we do for fun. Yes, we save lives at some point. But, really, that isn't our main goal when we solve mysteries. We want that rush. What you did, well. No one does for fun. And that is a story that deserves far more attention and greater respect. You did it well and you saved lives because it is in you to heal people. It is why I believe Mycroft is fond of you as well. He knows you will be good for Sherlock, whether he wants to admit it or not. I believe the same. Sherlock has always been the most troubled, out of all of us. Mycroft accepts loneliness because he has willingly chosen that path, but Sherlock," she paused, her eyes on the window, giving a soft sigh afterwards. "He always battled loneliness."

John finally turned in his chair, facing Westley. "And you?" She blinked, turning her eyes to the army doctor. "What do you battle?"

Westley gave a soft laugh. "I wouldn't call it so much a battle. You could say I teeter between Myrcroft's world and Sherlock's." She paused before shrugging and smiling. "I have no roots," she explained, wiggling her toes under the covers. "I have great many a friends and acquaintances, but I have no home. The world is my home, Doctor Watson." She fell back on the bed, her features turning stoic. "But I belong nowhere."

The bright screen went black and both were swallowed by the night, a few stray moon rays barely illuminating a corner of the room. John's weight sunk the bed and Westley turned on her side to face him, making out his profile in the dark. "You could belong here," he said to the ceiling, clearing his throat afterwards. "I mean, of course, if you want. Though I'm sure you've other places to go, news to expose and what say you. What I meant was, if you wanted, you could have a home. Here. With Sherlock, that is."

There was a small silence before John cleared his throat again. "Right. Forget that. I was just, talking," he said, pulling the sheets under his arms and settling his hands on his stomach.

Before she could consider the repercussions, her hand turned his jaw and she pressed her lips against his. "Thank you," she whispered against them afterwards. "No one ever offered me a home before. A place to sleep, yes. People to pass the time with, always. But, a home?" He felt her smile against his lips. "You are a wonderful doctor."

She pulled away and watched him closely, the way his chest heaved and his fingers were fists around the sheets. His eyes were closed shut. "You seem to think Sherlock is the special one," she said, settling closer to him in the bed, her gaze still on him. "That is not true."

A deep exhale filled the room and Westley bit her lip, trying hide the smile in case he turned towrds her. "Ah. Well. Thank you," John said with a tremulous voice, not daring to open his eyes. "Good night."

"Good night, Doctor Watson."


	4. Chapter 4

Two months slipped by and the trio settled into somewhat of a routine. Sherlock and John solved cases and Westley visited friends and family, including a taciturn Mycroft that immediately chased her out of Buckingham Palace ten minutes into her visit.

Today, though, the usual peace was disturbed. John and Westley ignored Sherlock as he stalked around the flat with a harpoon in hand, blue robe billowing behind him. "Oh, God!" he cried out, slamming the wooden handle of the harpoon into the floor. "John, I need some. Get me some," he demanded, turning around to face the calm duo.

"No," John replied simply, flipping the page of the newspaper.

Sherlock growled. "Get me some."

"No," Westley said this time, her finger running down the page of the book. "We all agreed you would go this cold turkey."

John set down one section of the newspaper to pick up another. "Besides, you've paid everyone the first instalment of the deal, remember?" John added, his eyes travelling over the new papers. "No-one within a two mile radius will sell us any until the time limit you set is up."

"Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?" Sherlock blinked when both Westley and John cleared their throats, looking at him. Sherlock looked towards the door before beginning to trash the desk, throwing paperwork around and knocking boxes open. "Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, intently searching every inch of the desk.

"Look, Sherlock," John said, his eyes back on the newspaper. "You're doing really well. Don't give up now."

"Tell me where they are. Please. Tell me," Sherlock said, standing rigid and turning to face John. Westley almost laughed when she saw the puppy-dog eyes her brother was throwing at John. "Please."

Westley turned the page on her book, running her finger through it again. "Can't help, sorry," John replied, not even bothering to look up.

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers." At this, both Westley and John laughed. Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh, it was worth a try." Two seconds after, he threw himself in front of the fireplace. Westley barely had enough time to pick up her feet to keep him from crushing them. Sherlock pulled out a slipper, jamming his hand into it and growling when he found nothing.

Mrs. Hudson finally came, giving her "yoo-hoo!" as she stepped into the room. "My secret supply. What have you done with my secret supply?" Sherlock asked. Mrs. Hudson gave a small "eh?" while Sherlock kept rummaging through the area around the fireplace. "Cigarettes! What have you done with them? Where are they?"

The landlady gave a short laugh. "You know you never let me touch your things!" She gave a look at the messy living area. Westley gave her a look and did her best to keep her smile down. "Oooh, chance would be a fine thing," she muttered.

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper," Sherlock said.

"Right," Westley interrupted, shutting her book and placing it on the table. "I am going out. I leave you in the very capable hands of John and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. Be nice."

"Bring me cigarettes."

It was a chorus of three now. "No!"

The sun shone as the brunette walked the streets of London. She allowed her mind to run loose, examining the weeks past as her eyes observed windows and faces passing her by. While it seemed her stay would be longer than usual, Sherlock continued unperturbed by her remaining with them. She assumed at first it was simply because his room was still in his possession. As the first month of her stay ended, though, she realized just how many flags she missed before in other visits.

 _Missed or ignored?_ she wondered to herself.

Sherlock would never come right out and say it, of course. Despite their time apart, it was easy for her to pick up on the subtleties of her brother's expressions. The slight lilt in his voice when calling out for her to show off his progress on an experiment, the attempt at subtle glances as she cooked with John, even the barely there hint of a pull of a smile as they argued theories. He would never ask her to stay, though. He was aware of how important her work was to her, as much as his own, which is what kept him in London and her abroad.

She could not deny that she might kept too much distance between them, for too long. At a certain point of her adolescence, she had retreated into herself. There seemed no other underlying reason but the idea that she didn't want to live in the shadow of her brilliant older brother. Despite her boisterous claims she was as smart - at times, smarter than - Sherlock, there was a sense of inadequacy when she found herself around him. As if something was missing. She'd had that feeling grow with the years, and thus decided to begin the journey in finding what that missing part of her was. Sherlock never tried to hold her back and she had taken it as a blessing from him of sorts. At least, that's the way she chose to see it. Now, she wished she hadn't been so blinded by her own insecurities, that she had used that so clever mind of hers to pick up the true feelings her brother now unknowingly hinted at.

And then there was John.

Well, John was a different thing altogether. While they continued sharing a bed, nothing ever transpired after the first and only kiss she gave him her second night in the flat. There was no denying they grew close, though, and would at times do outings on their own, when Sherlock slipped into what they referred to as "The Comatose Phase". Art shows, museums, dinner, anything that caught their fancy was a go for them. They learned a lot about each other, in just two months, and Westley couldn't deny there was some sexual tension there. John would never do a thing, though, not with her being Sherlock's little sister.

By the time Westley came back from grocery shopping, the thoughts she entertained were completely dispersed, and she found John's notebook thrown carelessly on the table beside his chair. She peeked at it, her curiosity sparked, before she heard the sounds of footsteps descending from the stairs.

"Case?" she asked, finally setting down the bags and putting things away. "Where to?"

"Dartmoor," John said as he set two bags by the door. "We might be a few days. Will you be alright?" Westley gave the army doctor a quirk of a smile. "Of course you will." He cleared his throat and helped her with the groceries while he waited for Sherlock. "Do you have anything you're working on at the moment?" he asked.

Westley shook her head. "I think I'll stay in, enjoy the silence. It will be a rare delicacy after enduring Sherlock jonesing for nicotine." She leaned against the kitchen sink, watching John as he placed the last of the produce in the refrigerator. "Will you be alright? Without me?" she asked, giving him a sly grin. "You do sleep better now that you've got yourself a great bedmate." John coughed roughly, placing his fist over his mouth. That did nothing to hide the blood that rushed to his face.

"I'll survive," he said, clearing his throat again. "I'm sorry again. About the last couple of nights."

While daytime was expected mayhem, nighttime in John's room became a little more tumultuous than usual. His nightmares were acute lately, most likely due to an upcoming anniversary, and Westley would wake to run a soothing hand over his hot forehead and whisper encouraging words in whatever language her brain was switched to at that hour. Sometimes, his sleep would resume uninterrupted. Other times, like yesterday night, John woke and apologized, repeatedly, to the brunette.

Westley reached out the same hand now, running a finger across his jaw. "Stop," she said, smiling. "You're fine." It was inevitable that every time they touched, John flushed. "We'll both be fine."

He gave her a smile as well and turned when Sherlock walked into the kitchen. "Have a safe trip, brother dear. Don't vex Mycroft too much, will you? I was planning on visiting him while you two were gone." John blinked while Sherlock glared at her, and Westley's smile widened. "I had a peek at your case. Oops. Can I make it up with some lunch before you go? I pack it quickly." The brunette was readily pulling out things from the refrigerator as she kept speaking. "Please make sure Sherlock eats, John. And call if you need anything."

Ten minutes later, she was waving the two men off with fresh lunch bags tucked under their arms. Westley sighed and turned back into the building, shutting the door behind herself. Her head was against wood, banging it softly. Seconds later, her text alert went off. Another sigh escaped her lips and her mouth curved into a smile when she read the screen: _Be safe._

The day passed slower than usual and Westley found herself pacing the flat, Sherlock's harpoon tightly clutched in her hand. Several holes were added to the wall where Sherlock's bullet holes resided. She'd been without a case for almost two weeks, which hadn't seemed like a big deal with Sherlock and John around. Except now that she was alone, the silence was driving her to the brink of madness. Like Sherlock, she needed her own fix, now that she was free of all distractions, and she decided to borrow John's laptop to look for anything of interest.

Nightfall came with her sitting in John's room, shifting through every news site she could think of without anything catching her eye. Westley didn't realize how badly she was gritting her teeth until pain in her jaw snapped her out of it and she decided to call it a night. Her phone went off just as she closed the laptop. She didn't notice the instantaneous way her body relaxed at the sight of John's name. "Well I was betting it would take longer for him to drive you mad," Westley said as a greeting, standing and heading to the bed. "What has Sherlock done this time?"

"He's afraid," John said, and Westley could hear him out of breath. "He's afraid and he's gone off on me and apparently he doesn't have any friends!" Westley closed her eyes, giving a sigh now.

"John," she started softly. "Something is wrong. Sherlock doesn't do fear, he doesn't do emotions. Not in a noticeable fashion, anyway. You know this just as well as I do." She heard him exhale slowly and she felt the tug at the corner of her mouth. "We can barely get him excited, and that's only when murder is involved."

The army doctor took another breath. "Are you doing alright?" he asked and she could hear the echo of his footsteps. "Getting your meals in and what not? You're exactly like Sherlock in that, you know. Pot and kettle."

Westley giggled, dropping into the bed and sighing. "Yes, sir. Three square meals today. You know, this bed is great. Much better than Sherlock's. It's also quite spacious now that you're over there. I may have to kick you out onto the settee after all, Doctor Watson!" John laughed and Westley felt completely at peace now. "Right then, get back to your case, Sherlock Junior."

"I resent that!" he cried into the phone, though he was still laughing. "But I do have something I want to look into. I'll send you a text when I've decided to call it a night."

Westley gave a nod, even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Be safe."

A deep exhale crossed her lips and her hand absentmindedly smoothed over the pillow on the left. "Hm." Without thought, her body turned and her face pressed against the pillow, the simple scent of the army doctor permeating the pillowcase. Her eyes popped open suddenly and she sat up, almost breathless. "Shit." Westley shook her head once, then again, before standing from the bed and pacing John's room.

She stopped, standing before the desk. Her eyes saw everything. John's journal. John's pens, neatly lined up beside it. Nothing else but the laptop sat on the desktop. She turned in the room slowly. Everything in its place, everything where it should be. And it felt…

"I need a case," she immediately told herself, refusing to acknowledge anything. "Right! They'll be gone for a few days. Maybe even weeks! And even then, what does it matter? I can pop into Spain for a bit, visit Marlene. Yes, that is a marvelous idea." Westley headed downstairs, spewing off other ideas. "Maybe even head straight to India after. Rishi would be a doll and let me stay, I'm sure. I haven't been in ages." The brunette froze when she was in the living area.

Everything about it screamed home.

It was impossible, every single thought that crossed her mind a few seconds ago. Instead of packing her suitcase as she wanted to, she sat on the red couch. Her fingers walked along the arms of it as her eyes remained on the moon filtering through the curtains. She was humming under her breath, though she didn't seem to be aware of it. Her phone went off again and the screen brought her two words: _Good night_.

At this, Westley jumped to her feet. "A few days won't hurt. I'll be back before they even know it."

She quickly re-packed her suitcase and grabbed her leather jacket. Her foot was over the threshold and it froze there, her eyes flicking back and forth on the floor before her. Westley walked back quickly, looking through the desk before plucking a blank page and scribbling a quick note.

Westley looked down at it for a few seconds, rereading her words before grabbing a piece of tape and slapping the note on the door.

"Right. Just a few days."


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm back!" Westley called out, dropping her suitcase onto the settee. A groan escaped her lips as she noticed the mess not only in the living area, but in the kitchen as well. "Right. Of course," she sighed, pulling off her leather jacket.

Westley got to cleaning, whistling as she reorganized the paperwork and books on the various surfaces. She was in the dining area, moving Sherlock's equipment out of the way, when she heard the door open and close. There was a flutter of anticipation, her eyes glued to the corner where John would appear from. She wondered how much differently her mind's recollection of John was from the real, breathing man. It felt too long, much too long, the pause it took from John coming through the door to standing before her.

"Welcome back." The smile on the brunette's features faded. John stood exactly where her mind imagined him, except grocery bags hung from his arms, and instead of a glad disposition, his features were stoic as his eyes scanned her up and down for a full minute . "Spain and Africa and India, right?" he asked finally, side-stepping her to set the bags on the table. When he caught sight of her surprised features, he shook his head. "Sherlock," he said, pulling out his mobile phone and waving it at her. "He noticed you from the window when you arrived. He's in his room."

"He is?" Westley stood blinking, then shifted her weight from one leg to the other, unsure as to what exactly was happening. "Well, it was good. The travels. Uh, solved a few cases, obtained good material - I thought I might start publishing again," she said, her words measured. Westley turned to face him, observing him with mounting confusion. "Why are you upset with me?"

John scoffed. "Why am I – you left," he said, arm waving at the front door. "You left, a vague note taped to the front door as a goodbye, and now you stroll back in three months later as if you've only been gone for a weekend holiday." The brunette could only stare, her lips parting as if to try to justify herself before shutting close. She watched John shaking his head as he put the groceries away. "You didn't call. You barely replied to messages. What were we supposed to think? What did you believe was going to happen when you came back? We'd have a party waiting? You didn't even tell us _if_ you'd come back at all."

The brunette let her gaze drop to the floor, her cheeks flushed. "I just thought, I figured you would know. Or, well, that's what I assumed," she replied.

"You assumed a note reading 'The thrill of the chase!' would be construed as a few days? And as you coming back?" John asked her with disbelief.

Maybe that had been ridiculous of her to assume. At least from John. And maybe it had been ridiculous too, to think he would accept her back. That Sherlock would, too. He hadn't even bothered coming out of his room to greet her, after all. "Right," she said, her hand rubbing at her neck now. "Yes, right. I suppose I should," she paused, clearing her throat, pointing her thumb towards the living room before turning away quickly, afraid of what her features might look like. "I'll get my things."

"Is it a Holmes thing?" John demanded before she could even step back into the living room, his hands on his hips now. "Your brothers do that, too. Not apologize, even when it's obvious they are wrong. Is it that bloody hard?" Westley turned back to John, surprised. "And what about answering your bloody phone? Is your sudden aversion of technology taken from Sherlock? Mycroft obviously doesn't suffer that, judging by the fact Sherlock's phone goes off every time he's doing something he shouldn't be." He exhaled hard at the end, shaking his head before he went back to putting away the produce. Westley remained frozen in place, allowing the seconds of silence to grow into minutes as she tried to process all the questions and decide which one to answer first. "Did you bring us something back?"

Westley startled, then allowed the smallest of exhales to escape. While it was obvious he was not over her little disappearing act completely, he at least was accepting of her coming back. "Of course," she said, going to her suitcase and pulling out a small, velvet bag. _You were always on my mind_ , is what she wanted to add as an explanation. Instead she said, "It's mostly for you. Sherlock isn't exactly a typical souvenir type. I brought a little bit of everything, from everywhere." Westley handed him the bag and hugged her biceps after, a nervous smile on her lips. "Have I missed anything?"

At this, John's barely surfacing smile fell. "Yes. If I knew I could keep it secret from you, I would. That's not my luck, though, but I can ask you to please remain uninvolved?" he said, setting the black velvet bag on the table without opening it. His grey eyes went to her own blue ones. "Can you promise me that? You won't get involved?"

"I can't," Westley replied, her gaze steady on his. John's brow furrowed and he turned his face away. Not enough to keep the brunette from sweeping over his features, his posture. She always tried to keep her talent away from John, but this was bad. "I'm sorry, but anything involving you or my brothers is automatically my business."

"No," Sherlock's voice came. The brunette pivoted, facing her brother. "Not this time, dear sister. You need to stay out of it. Mycroft is in agreement. If either of us sees you snooping around, Mycroft will send you out of the country and you won't be able to return unnoticed. Do you understand?" Westley looked between John and Sherlock now, eyes narrowed. "Westley Parker Holmes, do you understand?" The brunette tensed at the sound of her full name, and she forced her features to smooth out.

"Alright," Westley replied simply. She walked out of the kitchen, grabbing her suitcase and heading upstairs. "I'll be in my room," she added in the same calm tone. Her feet climbed the stairs steadily, yet once in John's room, she tossed her luggage on the bed. Without wasting time, she grabbed John's laptop, quickly tapping into it. Her eyes scanned the news for the last three months and she frowned when Sherlock's and John's name popped up in relation to a court trial. "Moriarty," she muttered to herself. Her hands rose to her chin, eyes flicking back and forth on the screen as she tried tying the name to any record. "Jim Moriarty." Westley jumped when the laptop was shut a bit too forcefully.

John's eyes were sharp and Westley felt her breath catch in her throat. "Forget that name and forget what you read. Understood? I have Mycroft on speed dial as well, you know."

Westley tilted her head at that, curiosity filling her eyes now. "You have me on speed dial? I hope I'm number one. Sherlock definitely doesn't deserve first place," she said, lips lifting into a smirk. When she saw his features remain hard, she sighed. "Fine. Forgotten," she added with a wave of her hand.

The brunette stood before John had a chance to step away, and she found herself a few inches from the army doctor. She actually noticed herself looking up and she smiled. "What?" he asked, shifting on his feet suddenly, yet not moving away.

A kiss landed on John's cheek. The effect was immediate, blood rushing to the surface of his cheeks. "I missed that," Westley said, pleased at the reaction, before walking around John to head back downstairs. "I'll have dinner ready in a half hour or so, if you want to freshen up." Westley bounded back down into the kitchen without waiting for a reply. Sherlock was at his seat, watching her the moment she appeared in his field of vision. "Understood," she said to her brother after she noticed the look he gave her. "I'll stand down."

An hour later, Westley had a wide spread of dishes on the table and a smile on her face again. "I hope you two are hungry." The two men immediately occupied the seats and began filing their plates. "And that's how I know you have not been eating properly," Westley said with a laugh, taking her own seat. Before she could reach for anything, Sherlock was placing food on her plate while John was filling her wine glass. "Oh, you _definitely_ missed me. Or did you miss the meals?" Both men gave her grins before they dug into their plates.

The brunette ate her meal quietly while Sherlock and John talked about cases they solved the past couple of days. "How did your journey go?" Sherlock asked, sparing Westley a small glance. "Did you resolve what was troubling you?" At this, the young woman jumped, her eyes analyzing not only the words spoken, but any giveaways her brother might show on his face.

"Everything is fine," she replied, her spine straightening and her chin protruding slightly as she took a sip of her wine. "I hope it is the same for you, dear brother," she added, her features darkening for a second before she composed herself, setting her wine glass down and focusing her sight on her food.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. "You were always so distrustful of our abilities to take care of ourselves, which we have proved unfounded every time," Sherlock said with a wave of his fork. "Everything _is_ fine, sister dear. Don't bother with it."

"Hm, right," Westley said, forcing herself to take another bite. "The great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes is on the case," she said, obliging a smile. There was something about this whole situation - the maddening press coverage, the demand from both Sherlock and John to stay out of it, the lack of information on this Jim Moriarty despite the circus of the media - that rubbed at Westley in just the right way to trigger some sort of paranoia. "Promise you won't die." Her brother looked taken aback, his fork abruptly clanking against his plate. "Promise me, Sherlock."

"Westley – "

"Just make the promise," Westley said, her voice stern. She caught sight of a tremble in her hands and she took a slow breath to steady herself. "It is unnerving that I don't know the man, alright? If he is a criminal, one of high enough caliber to challenge my brother, I should know that name and that face. I started off in crime watch, after all. But I don't. And all this, it feels so dangerously like a set-up, like someone who has worked their whole life to make sure you fall. Because you are his obsession, that is clear to see. You are being discredited by the media, after everything you've done, in such little time, by a complete phantom. And there must be more neither of you will tell me. So call me distrustful, sentimental, whatever you please. But you promise me you won't die."

The brother looked down at his plate, before giving her a single, sharp nod. "I promise."

Westley exhaled slowly, unaware she held her breath during their exchange. "Great." The trio ate in silence now and when Westley stood to do the dishes, Sherlock carefully took her plate and directed her to the living area. The brunette sighed, rubbing at her temple. "I'm fine, Sherlock," she said to him, her eyes straight on his. "But it is nice to see you take the initiative." Her mouth curled at a corner before going to John's room instead. With the door closed behind her, she paced the floor, eyes intent on it. She didn't even hear John as he opened and shut the door an hour later.

"Wes," he called, his voice soft. The brunette froze, her head snapping up. "You cannot get involved. Promise _me_ that. Please."

Westley remained looking into John's eyes for a few moments before very deliberately shaking her head. "Don't make me promise a vow I'll break. I'm sorry, John," she said, her mouth almost white as her lips pressed together. "Mycroft has this thing he would say. 'The east wind is coming.' It used to evoke this unexplainable fear in me, when I was younger. I haven't had that sense of blind fear since I was an adolescent, but I feel it now, at the sound of this Jim Moriarty's name. Sherlock can't do this alone."

"The east wind?" John asked before shaking his head. "Look, it doesn't matter. He is not alone. He has me. And he has Mycroft," John replied, his arms crossed over his chest. "And I wasn't lying, what I said earlier. Forget it all. Any sign of interference in your part and Mycroft will have you shipped off somewhere else. If I - ah, if we could survive without you for three months, I'm sure we can do it again."

"You missed me that much?" Westley asked, giving up on the pacing and sitting on the bed. "Would things be different?" she added suddenly, looking up at John. "If I wasn't Sherlock's sister?" She saw him try to speak, and with an amused smile, she put her palm up. "It isn't worth answering."

Clearing her throat, she kicked off her boots as she unbuttoned her vest. "You know, I stole one of your long shirts," she started again, a smile tugging at her lips still. "Just one, I swear. And it was my favourite thing. Sometimes I'd just go days wearing that, even out to cases. It reminded me," she stopped herself even as she pulled off her vest. Westley still moved her hands with precision, folding the vest unhurriedly. "It reminded me of home. It was the first time I actually thought of some place as home," she finally finished, her eyes on the clothing. She was smiling now, the gesture softening her face. "I woke up two days ago, thinking I was here, in this room. And when I realized I wasn't, I booked the first flight back because the idea of spending another day or another night away from here suddenly felt like too much."

John was silent throughout it all, until Westley paused. "I wish," he started, before clearing his throat. "If things were different. I mean, you know." He motioned downstairs. "Your leaving made me extremely upset. Very much so that Sherlock was ready to go get you himself," he said and Westley's brow furrowed in confusion. "Mrs. Hudson told me. He was making preparations in secret and he asked her a favour, thinking she wouldn't realize what it meant." John took a moment before sitting beside Westley. "I care, so much, about you," he continued, his hand taking hold of Westley's. "And I would do anything, to keep you happy. And to keep you safe."

"But not be together, of course," Westley said, her hand squeezing his softly. "And I understand. Completely. It's the reason why I don't truly pursue you, no matter how badly I want it." A deep sigh echoed in the room as Westley rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. "Can we pretend? Just for a minute," she requested, one by one interlacing her fingers with his. "Pretend I'm not me and you're not you and we can just exist together without worry or care."

The army doctor nodded once and kissed the top of her head before resting his chin on it. His thumb dragged along hers as they revelled in the silence, the moon rising on them as they sat together, not a word spoken but everything known.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: STUCK AT WORK BECAUSE UGGGGHHHHHH._

* * *

Life at 221B Baker Street returned to normalcy. Sherlock and John worked cases, though, the threat of Moriarty hanging above them every step of the way. Westley allowed herself to slip back to the chaotic norm that was the trio's life. She maintained her spot as the flat's cook, presenting meal after meal of hot dishes for the men. Her own projects piled up and she welcomed the distraction. If she was to pull of the ideas she had in mind, she'd have to be stealthy.

The Holmes sister allowed two months to slip on this way before she began her real work. Westley's alias and her rare visits to London provided an anonymity which worked to her advantage. Within a week, she caught up with the Homeless Network of which Sherlock so proudly boasted of, gathering the details of the events in the past couple of months. On a whim, she visited Molly Hooper as well, though the woman showed to be skittish and cut her visit short. This worried Westley - despite her attempt at being subtle, it seemed Molly's already altered state was enough to catch the real reason for her visit. And Westley knew well enough the woman's love was intricately tied to her loyalty.

By the time she made it back to the flat, she found a black, indescribable car waiting by the curb. "Shit," she muttered, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and heading up the stairs. "It is always nice to have you come to me instead, big brother. Buckingham Palace is such a bore," Westley greeted before Mycroft even came into view, heading straight for the kitchen instead. "Would you like a cuppa? I'll hold the sugar. You must really after after your figure." Mycroft stood by the fireplace, simply watching the youngest Holmes while she filled the kettle.

"You know why I'm here, Westley," he replied, using his umbrella to point directly at her. "You are meddling. I believe both Sherlock and I were distinctively clear on what would happen if you interfered," he said, setting his umbrella back to his side.

The brunette kept her back to him while pulling out a tray, cups and saucers. "Staying informed is not meddling, Mycroft," she said, keeping a straight face when she turned to him. "I plan to stay here for longer than expected, and if I am to work, I need information. Or will you be footing all my bills? You do have the resources now, after all."

Mycroft made no other move or spoke anymore. He observed her, his eyes tiny brushes, sweeping over every inch of her. "Why are you not sleeping in Sherlock's bed?" he asked, taking two steps towards her. "Has your sentiment once again gotten the best of you?"

A growl resonated in Westley's throat and she pressed her lips to smother the sound. "My emotions are well in check, brother dear," she replied coldly, her fingers tightening around the tray. "You're running late. You must be very busy dealing with Moriarty, I'm sure." Mycroft was taken aback by her declaration. She gave a scoff when she saw the flash of shock. "You won't check your watch, but you'll check mine. I'm not as stupid as you like to think Mycroft. And I am definitely not as helpless."

They stared each other down for almost a full minute, neither looking away until the sound of the front door reached their ears. "Please do remember, there is always someone watching, wherever you are," Mycroft said, breaking eye contact and walking out of the flat. Westley let out a small exhale, setting down the tray before it slipped her grasp.

"What did our dearest brother want?" Sherlock asked, his hands behind his back as he examined an again stoic Westley. His eyes narrowed suddenly. "Of course. You're prying."

"I am not," Westley sighed, pulling the whistling kettle off the stove and pouring water into three cups. "Where's John?"

At that moment, the army doctor walked in, his features tight. "Gathering information for work, she says," John told Sherlock, his eyes flickering towards the brunette. "She's using your Homeless Network."

"That's mine," the Holmes brother said pointedly. "You aren't allowed near them."

"You can't own people, Sherlock," Westley raised her voice, slamming down the cream onto the table. "Did Mycroft say that, Doctor Watson?" she spat, her eyes narrowing at both men.

"They're waiting for you downstairs, then," Sherlock mentioned offhandedly now. "It's out of my hands." Westley's jaw dropped. Only a week of gathering intel and things were spiraling out of her control. "This time, I won't try and bring you back."

Westley snarled at Sherlock as she walked away from the kitchen. "I didn't ask you to come for me the first time around."

The brunette stomped to the top floor, banging the door shut behind her even though it wasn't her room. She fumed, muttering to herself as she threw her belongings into the suitcase. John walked in, but Westley paid no heed to him. "Banish me," she growled, shoving clothes into her suitcase and stuffing them down. "As if I were the goddamn criminal." She stopped when her eyes finally landed on John. "They won't keep me out for long."

"I think they will," John said, his voice low. "You forget who Mycroft is and the power he wields."

The woman snarled again, resuming her packing. Before long, two men in black arrived at the front door. "Please tell our darling brother that he can't always keep his focus on me," Westley said, walking out before the two men could even touch her. They walked behind her to the car, driving out to the airport. Mycroft waited at the gate, his umbrella in hand like usual.

"Don't try," he spoke as he handed her the ticket. "I've arranged for you to remain with some friends in America. They'll keep an eye out."

Westley snapped the ticket out of his hand, pivoting away towards the aircraft. When she turned to spit out a final curse at Mycroft, she found Sherlock and John climbing down from another black car. The expression on the army doctor's face choked back any comeback she had for the eldest Holmes and she spun back towards the airplane, biting down on her tongue until she tasted metal.

It took Westley less than twenty minutes to lose the Secret Service following her around. What she didn't count on was Mycroft's sly choice. America was home to the juiciest stories, of this she was well aware of, and when news of her arrival hit the right ears, her phone rang immediately. The itch was too strong for Westley to push away, only enhanced by the stress and anger of her situation. It didn't help that political candidates and White House representatives were on the line for her, and she figured letting some time slip by so as to catch Mycroft off guard wouldn't be a bad thing.

Thirty days faded into each other, Westley taking cases both from private parties and her friends from NCIS. One particular day, Westley found herself killing time in an investigation for the First Lady when an image was texted to her by an old colleague, the same whose cousin she brought home. Her eyes read the prepared headline – to be published the next day, her colleague stated – and it was enough to stop her heartbeat.

 _Suicide of Fake Genius_

On the bottom right corner, a picture of Sherlock with the stupid deerstalker hat was displayed. Westley's lungs constricted, her hand clutching at her chest with gritted teeth.

Before an hour was up, she boarded a private jet, courtesy of the now relieved and grateful First Lady. Upon alighting in London, Westley headed straight for Baker Street, bursting through the front door. She found John sitting at his red couch, unperturbed by her entrance. Westley ignored him, frantically searching the apartment for Sherlock, shouting his name over and over until Mrs. Hudson came up herself, a tray with tea cups ready.

At the sight, Westley slumped against the door that was Sherlock's room, slipping down it and hiding her face in her hands. Not a sound came from her as Mrs. Hudson silently prepared tea for the three of them. "Come, Lee," Mrs. Hudson said, her voice unable to stop itself from choking up. "This will help."

The brunette stood slowly, swaying on her legs for a few seconds then turning and going into Sherlock's room, quietly shutting and locking the door behind her.

For days, nothing was heard from the room. Mrs. Hudson tried coaxing her out with food, Mycroft with threats of sending her back to America, though he had no intention of doing so. Her parents made an appearance, pleading through the closed door. Phone calls from her friends, and acquaintances poured in, all unanswered.

Westley was unaware of all of this. She had wrapped herself in the last item Sherlock had dressed in. His scent permeated the fabric still, and she lay in her brother's bed, curled into herself and eyes glazed over. The sounds of people coming and going were nothing but murmurs, muffled in the recesses of her mind. The sun and the moon held no significance to her and even when her body constricted in pain, her mind didn't register it as a cry for food or rest. It was associated with the only thought in her mind – her brother was dead and this was hell.

Only John allowed her to grieve in peace. With the help of a spare key, he placed plates of fruit and cups of tea on the desk without a sound; replaced them every day, even when he saw she wouldn't touch them.

When she finally emerged, the damage of her abstinence was evident. Her features sharpened, and it would've shocked many to see how she could pass for the ghost of her brother. John sat at his usual spot, vacantly staring at the window. He snapped out of it when Westley opened the bedroom door, wrapped in Sherlock's blue robe, her hair tangled and knotted. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke.

"I want to go to his funeral," she said, clearing her throat after with wincing. "I assume it will take a day or two to arrange?"

John sighed, standing from the couch. "Wes… The funeral was three days ago."

Westley blinked, her head slowly shaking. "That's… that's not possible. I was only a few hours. A day, at most." John held up his phone and she read the date. "No. No, that's not... Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We tried. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and your parents tried to snap you out of it, but you were gone." John guided her to Sherlock's black chair and when she sat, her whole frame trembled. Memories flooded of the many times her brother sat right there, fingers splayed and that irritating smirk on his face. "We can visit his," John swallowed hard, gripping his hands tightly together. "His grave. I was going to go, later on, with Mrs. Hudson. I can wait on you to get ready. I'll bring you some clothes."

The Holmes sister shook her head, closing her burning eyes momentarily. "I'll get it."She grabbed her suitcase and dragged it back into Sherlock's room. Pulling out a pair of slacks from her case, she headed to her brother's closet after. She pulled out one of his favourite black dress shirts, laying it out on the bed. Her hand ran over the material, fingers toying with the buttons.

She allowed herself a long, hot bath, the water refreshing her physically and mentally. Westley took her time dressing, gently tucking Sherlock's shirt into her slacks. Her curls were wild, and she didn't bother any attempts to tame them. She studied her features in the full-length mirror, her eyes scanning every inch of her face. Her hands ran down the front of the shirt, and she felt tears threatening to escape. Turning away from her reflection, she returned to the closet, pulling out a bagged piece of clothing. The tags were still intact and she delicately extracted the coat from the bag. Westley mailed it to Sherlock, a few Christmases ago, and he reserved it – or so he had told her – for special occasions or cases.

Westley smiled, shaking her head. It was exactly the same as his usual coat, down to the color of the buttons. It was supposed to help replace the worn out one. And yet, he hadn't bothered with even removing it from the bag.

John knocked on the door. "Wes? Mrs. Hudson is waiting on us downstairs with the cab," he called out. The brunette slid on the coat, popping the collar up. She passed her reflection and started, her bright blue eyes shining off the mirror.

The door opened and John was struck silent. "I'm sorry about the hold up," Westley said, walking past a shocked John. When Mrs. Hudson saw her, the woman gave a soft gasp before turning away, immediately wiping at her eyes. She and Westley took the back seat, John sitting with the cabbie in the front and directing him to the cemetery.

Mrs. Hudson and John went first. Mrs. Hudson walked back to the youngest Holmes when she was done, slipping her arm around hers as they watched John talking to his best friend's grave. Westley couldn't bring herself close to it.

When Westley mustered the courage, both John and Mrs. Hudson gave her a moment on her own with her brother's grave. The brunette was impassive as her eyes studied the headstone. "You bloody idiot," she muttered, shaking her head slowly. "You promised me, Sherlock. You pompous little shit," she said through gritted teeth, a dark change overcoming her features. "I wanted to help and you didn't let me. Then you go and get yourself killed, even though you promised me!" By then she was screaming at the tombstone, veins popping on her neck and face red, hot tears spilling over hollow cheeks. "You bastard!" She made to kick the gravestone only to find herself swung away by John. "You promised me, you cock! You promised!"

The army doctor held her tightly, pressing her face into his chest as Westley sobbed. "Right. You're okay," he whispered in her ear, his fingers brushing her hair gently. "I've got you." The blond gave a final look at the headstone, as if to remind it of something, before turning them away and walking back to Mrs. Hudson.

Upon arriving at the flat, John tried walking Westley to his room, but the woman refused, redirecting herself to Sherlock's room. John sighed before following, helping her settle into bed. "John," Westley called out, reaching for his hand and gripping it tightly. "Please." John closed his eyes before giving another sigh, sitting on the bed and kicking off his shoes.

It wasn't long before the two slipped into a heavy sleep, arms around each other as the moon shone through the window. A silhouette broke the rays laying flat against them, and the familiar figure watched them, his lips pressed together, before vanishing out of the flat.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: It has most certainly been a while. Everyone hanging in there?_

* * *

John and Westley stood at the threshold of the front door, their eyes giving the flat a final look.

There was not a single item moved. Neither could bring themselves to believe the idea that Sherlock was truly gone. His test tubes and experiments remained untouched on the kitchen table. His myriad of books and research papers lay strewn across the desk and coffee table and fireplace. Even his skull was in the usual spot, empty eyes peering into the kitchen.

It was Westley that turned away first, her eyes gaining that all-too-familiar burn. Once outside, she tugged the coat, Sherlock's coat, tighter around her. "You found a new place," she mentioned to John when he joined her. There was a small pause of silence. "Is it nice?"

"Very," he answered, zipping up his coat. "It's a very ample place." His eyes flickered towards her then away to the sky, clearing his throat. "I know you're leaving. It's not that hard to deduce," he said with a tense smile. "But I want – no," he corrected, shaking his head. "I need you to know and to always remember, you have a home here. If two months pass or three or six, it doesn't matter. Home is waiting for you, whenever you're ready."

Westley looked out at the busy street. "Thank you," she said, at last allowing her eyes to take in his form. The pull she felt was strong but Westley hesitated before she closed the distance, her hands on his face and her mouth on his. "For everything," she whispered against his lips.

A black car slowed down at the Baker Street residence and Westley unconsciously stepped away from John. "Don't forget to check your phone every once in a while, yea?" he said, trying to force a smile.

Words she wanted to speak swirled around the woman's head. Westley shook her head before flashing him a bright smile. "I'll see you around, Doctor Watson," the brunette said with a wave of her hand before she climbed into the car. Mycroft sat inside, his hands resting on the hook of the umbrella. Her features darkened as soon as the door shut. "If possible, I would love this car ride to go as silent as possible," Westley said. "Conversation with the man that prevented me from helping save my brother is not on my list of things I want to do at all."

Mycroft sighed, his hand rubbing at his temple. "He was my brother too; my younger brother. And _you're_ my youngest sibling. I had to protect you," he stated, almost as if reaffirming to himself. "I did my best with Sherlock as well, until the end. Take that as you will. Mother and father can only take so many lost offspring."

The brunette kept her eyes on the blurred scene outside the window, without speaking another word. They arrived at the airport before long, her suitcases sent in advance to her friend's home in India. "Call your spies off, if you still want to be considered my blood after this," she said, opening the car door. "I don't need your help. What good is it anyway? It didn't keep Sherlock alive."

A wince crossed Mycroft's face for a fraction of a second before it was wiped away. "Be safe," he said, just as Westley closed the car door.

The flight was uneventful and when she landed, she was surrounded by a small group of friends, headed by Rishi. "Welcome back," he said, embracing her. "I am sorry for your loss," he added softly against her ear. Westley shut her eyes tightly, biting her lip to keep from crying.

Westley's stint away from London wasn't for just a few weeks. She became immersed in life in India, randomly accepting cases when the itch was too strong to ignore. She found her own place before long, and spent her days in the apartment, facing the window and watching the people pass by. Her mind was constantly wrapped around Sherlock and his death, around leaving John.

It was four months into her time in India. When Westley couldn't stand her own thoughts, she spent time composing music, using the only piece of Sherlock she brought with her. She found herself playing violin one afternoon, her eyes on the streets below. As she was to turn away, a familiar dark-haired profile came into view. The violin screeched horribly under her touch and she didn't hear when it fell onto the carpet. Westley shot out the door, jumping down two steps at a time and yanking open the front door. Running into the street, she searched the faces frantically, chest heaving.

"Sherlock!" she screamed, positive the man she saw was her brother. "Sherlock!" Her heart knocked in her ribcage as she sprinted up and down several blocks, wide-eyed and desperate. Somehow Rishi found her hours later, aimlessly wandering the streets, voice hoarse and her eyes blank.

After Rishi brought her back home that day, she rarely left her flat for anything but grocery shopping or the occasional case that required legwork. John would never call, but he would text and was happy to receive even one-word replies from the brunette. Westley knew he was informed of her breakdown, somehow, and to prevent him from following through with his threat of going to India, she would answer often enough to keep his mind in some semblance of peace.

It became easier, as more months passed, to live with the pain in her chest and with the fact that Sherlock really was dead. One evening, well into the night, between the brink of consciousness and dreams, a familiar scent invaded her bedroom. Her groggy mind didn't register the action of her hand reaching out beside her. When it found an empty space, her eyes popped open, panicked. It took her several minutes to remember where she was and that she was completely alone. Westley lay on her back, her eyes moving over the ceiling before she sprung out of bed, never hesitating as she stuffed her belongings into suitcases.

Not even an hour later, she was at the airport. She didn't bother with farewells, or even with finishing the one case she took weeks before. While buying her ticket, she noticed the date. Westley swallowed hard. It was exactly a year since Sherlock's death. London would greet her the day after the anniversary. Shaking her head, she set her jaw and walked to the gate.

It caused no surprise to see the familiar black car waiting when she walked out of the airport. Mycroft leaned against it, the usual umbrella in hand. "Welcome back, sister dear," he greeted, opening the car door for her as his men took her suitcases. "Where are you headed first? Father and mother have been asking about you, in case you're wondering. They've offered the usual room for you, if you're interested. I've kept them up to date since you refuse to answer your phone for anyone but Doctor Watson."

"You already know where I want to go then," she said, taking a seat in the car with her hands on her lap. They were interlaced together in an attempt to hide the way they trembled.

"Is that a good i– "

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Mycroft," Westley cut him off, her eyes set forward. "If it's too much of a request for you, dear brother, I'll take a cab." The oldest Holmes exhaled sharply before closing the door and rounding the back of the car, giving the driver instructions before entering the car. "How is Mrs. Hudson?" she asked, trying to keep her mind busy for the ride. "She is still at Baker Street, I assume?"

Mycroft set his umbrella down. "Yes. She's quite well. Lonely, but alive. She sends her love." At this, Westley bit her lip, looking out the window to block Mycroft's view of her features as best as she could. She heard her brother's hesitation before he continued talking. "I wanted to," he paused, clearing his throat. This caught her interest and she turned to study Mycroft, her sharp sight scanning every micro-expression. "I simply wanted to say…"

Westley rolled her eyes, waving a hand at her brother before returning her eyes to the view outside. "You were never good at apologies. I accept it," she said, sitting up straight when the car rolled to a stop before a simple house. "Is this it?" she asked, her gaze studied every brick and crevice of the building. "It's nice."

"He took up the practice again," Mycroft explained, watching his sister.

The interlaced fingers tightened around each other. "That's fantastic," she said, attempting to sound detached when she spoke the next question. "Has he found someone?"

Mycroft's scoff was enough of an answer. "Should I get your bags up?" he asked instead. The brunette shook her head.

"I can do it," she replied, exiting the vehicle without another word and finding her suitcases on the sidewalk. Westley took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a few seconds before gripping the handles of her bags and walking up the steps to the door. She looked back, waiting until the black car rounded the corner. Satisfied with its disappearance, her finger hovered over the doorbell as she chewed her lip.

Every sense was sharply in focus now – the smell of freshly baked bread from a store two doors down, laughter from the children in the candy store across the block. Even the changes in her body sharpened. There was the feel of her blood rushing through her veins, the way her heartbeat rose at the thought of seeing his face "Ah, hell," she sighed before taking a breath and pushing the doorbell and standing stiffly at the door.

Reality shifted in a second, giving a feel of being underwater. Everything slowed for Westley, except the door and the man standing behind it. There was no noise anymore; no roar of cars passing by, no more ringing bells from shop doors opening, not even her own heartbeat.

"Westley," John greeted, his voice unusually soft. Westley opened her mouth to reply but not a sound came out; she could only stare as her hungry eyes took in his form. He smiled suddenly, letting go of the door. "Welcome home." Before it even registered in her mind, Westley's arms were around John, her lips crashing against his. John maintained his balance somehow, immediately returning the kiss as his hands gripped her waist.

When they parted, foreheads pressed together, Westley felt the tears falling from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."

John shook his head, pressing her close and wrapping his arms fully around her. "We all grieve differently," he said with a light shrug. "Let's get you inside." There was a hesitation before he let go of her, as if she would vanish at any second. He shook his head as he grabbed her suitcases. Westley stepped into the house, looking around with surprise. "What do you think?" he asked with a nervous chuckle. "I am terrible at home décor, I know."

"It's very lovely, John," Westley nodded in approval before turning to him with a smile. "I heard you went back to your practice."

He gave a shrug. "This isn't exactly as cheap as the flat," he said, placing her suitcases to the side and sliding his hands into his pockets. The tension between them was palpable and both stood awkwardly, shifting their weight around. "It's strange, the difference a year makes."

Westley let her gaze fall to the ground. "I had a lot on my mind," she said softly, taking a few steps closer to him. "Remember when I left the first time? How I told you, afterwards, I woke up and simply couldn't be away any longer?" She raised her eyes to him, almost pleading for him to believe her. "It happened every day, this time. But I couldn't come back, with the memory of Sherlock so fresh. And just before I jumped on the plane this time, I caught a scent." A ghost of a smile passed her lips. "And all I could think of was you, about seeing you again. And I couldn't," she paused when her voice cracked, breaking eye contact to focus on her shoes instead. "I couldn't lose someone I love, not again."

The woman jumped when John embraced her, his arms holding her tight enough that she didn't realize she could barely take in air. Westley didn't care though. She clung to him, feeling as if her heart was thumping right out of her chest. "God, I missed you," he breathed against her ear. "I felt I would never breathe easy again." John pulled back minutely, pressing his open lips against Westley's, hot and full of need. "You can never leave again." Westley shook her head immediately.

"I won't," she said, kissing him again, her hands on his face.

No more words were passed between the two. The only motion in the room was their hands against each other as they tore at their clothes, lips interlocked as he pulled her into the bedroom. Westley wanted to breathe every exhale from John, to feel every inch of his skin against her hot skin. They fell onto the bed, John's fingers deep in Westley's hair as her palms pressed against his chest.

The rest of the day was a blur of moans and sighs, tangled limbs and sore lips. Moon rays landed on the two as they finally lay still under the covers, Westley resting on John's chest, soothed by the sound of his steady heartbeat, as he ran his fingers through her tangled locks. His lips pressed against her forehead and Westley faintly smiled, her arm tightening around his body. "I haven't felt this complete in such a long time," John murmured against her brow.

A small sigh escaped Westley as she lifted her face towards him, placing a soft kiss on his jawline. She nuzzled his neck after, closing her eyes as she yawned. "I'm just happy to finally be home."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: These are complex times. Have another._

* * *

John and Westley sat at Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The older woman set down a tray with three cups and saucers; or, more like slammed them down on the table. She went back and grabbed the cream, thumping that down as well. When she did the same to the sugar, Westley and John exchanged a look. "Oh, no. Neither of you take that do you?" Mrs. Hudson asked John, blinking rapidly.

"No," John said, shaking his head in unison with Westley.

Mrs. Hudson gave a little nod. "You forget little things like that." Westley grabbed her cup and saucer, clearing her throat. "You forget _lots_ of little things, it seems," the landlady continued, eyes sharp on the two. John made an "uh-huh" sound before grabbing his cup and saucer too. Mrs. Hudson stared at them before she ran a finger between her nose and lips, her eyes solely on John again. "I'm not sure about that." Westley hid her curling lip by taking a sip of coffee. "Ages you."

John looked at Westley and the blonde gave an indiscernible shrug, her eyes wide. "Just trying it out," he responded, trying to smile as he raised the coffee to his lips.

"Well, it ages you." John stared at her, setting the cup down. "And you," Mrs. Hudson said, eyes turned to Westley. The Holmes sister carefully set her coffee on the saucer. "Really?" she continued, motioning to the young woman's hair. "Blonde? With your pale complexion?" Westley couldn't help but laugh softly. "You're trying it out as well?"

"Look," John started, only to get interrupted.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, palms up as if surrendering. "I'm not your mother. Either of yours. I've no right to expect it – "

"It's not - ," Westley interrupted, though her shame flushed her face.

"But just _one_ phone call, from either of you," Mrs. Hudson said, her features changing from anger to dismay.

John looked into his cup. "I know."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed, trying to maintain composure. "After all we went through. After knowing you for so many years," Mrs. Hudson added to Westley.

"I _am_ sorry," Westley said, her voice low and her gaze locked on Mrs. Hudson's eyes. "We both are."

Mrs. Hudson took a seat, taking a slow breath. "Look, I understand how difficult it was for you two after… after," she paused, shaking her head as a frown etched itself onto her lips.

"We let it slide, Mrs. Hudson. We let it _all_ slide," John said, taking a sip of coffee before continuing, setting his own eyes on Mrs. Hudson's. "And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow." He sighed, looking away, and Westley placed her hand over his. "Do you know what I mean?"

Heavy silence filled the room. Mrs. Hudson finally sighed, placing her hand over both John's and Westley's. The trio shared a look before they continued drinking their coffees in the same silence.

Half an hour later, they found themselves in the flat they abandoned two years ago. They remained mute, until Mrs. Hudson switched on the light and walked into the room. "I couldn't face letting it out," she said, pulling back the curtains and coughing when the dust flew. "He never liked me dusting."

John looked around, his eyes going to the kitchen at the untouched experiments. "No, I know," he replied, distracted, as Mrs. Hudson went across the room to open the other curtains. "Westley barely managed to keep him organized."

"So, why now?" she asked suddenly, turning to Westley and John. "What changed your mind?"

Brought back to attention, John took a deep breath, facing Mrs. Hudson. "Well," he said, sneaking a look at Westley. "Would you? Please?" he asked the young woman. She gave a nod and walked to his old room upstairs.

She heard John start talk about the journal, how it held too many painful memories to have it in his possession back when they left and how he wanted to properly document Sherlock's story. Westley strode into the room of her lover, a ghost of a smile on her face as memories flooded her mind. She ambled up to the desk where she watched John every night as he blogged about Sherlock's cases. Opening the top drawer, she found the journal, its brown leather caked with dust.

Blowing softly, she covered her mouth and nose afterwards as the dirt rose. The leather cracked very softly as she opened it, running her hand over the handwriting on the first page. Her eyes fluttered around the room afterwards, more memories of the two laying in the dark, whispering their stories and secrets under the cover of the night. When she finally found her way downstairs, she caught the last bits of John's conversation with the landlady. "Live and let live – that's my motto," she heard Mrs. Hudson say.

"Listen to me – _I am not gay_!" John practically shouted.

Westley walked in, holding out the chronicles to John. "I bloody well hope not," the blonde joked, locking her arm with his. "If it's true, I definitely need to brush up on my deduction skills," she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. Westley turned to Mrs. Hudson, about to ask about Sherlock's room only to find her teary-eyed and sniffling, pretending to be busy fixing up papers and books on the desk. "What is going on?" Westley asked, eyes narrowing between the landlady and her boyfriend.

"Allergies, darling," Mrs. Hudson stated simply, pulling out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.

John looked at his watch. "Right, well, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," the army doctor said, smiling at her. "And I promise, we _will_ visit more."

The landlady closed the distance between the couple, using an arm on each to make a group hug. "You best remember that promise," Mrs. Hudson said, sniffing her nose lightly. Westley raised a brow at John over the woman's head, trying to suppress a smile. "Oh! My biscuits!" she cried, rushing out of the flat and downstairs. Westley turned to John, arms crossed.

"So would you mind explaining, darling, why Mrs. Hudson claimed allergies when there is no such thing in her medical history?" Westley asked, reaching out to run a finger across John's jawline. "And please do remember who you're speaking with."

"I told her we were living together," he said, hooking his arm around her waist and pulling her close. "As an actual couple, you know? When I called, I didn't exactly tell her our situation. And I told Mycroft to keep it to himself as well. I wasn't exactly sure what you wanted, so I assumed," he stopped, giving a shrug before planting a kiss on the corner of her mouth. "I thought it would be nice, to give her some good news. I thought it might appease her rage for our lack of visits. Is that alright?"

Westley smiled sweetly, pressing a hand against his chest. "Hm," she hummed, walking her fingers up towards his collarbones. "Alright. Well, we should be heading back, then." The blonde made to walk away, only to find herself pulled back tighter against John. "Watch yourself, doctor," she warned, a tug in the corner of her lips. "I'll have to let your girlfriend know you're messing with the secretary."

John laughed, shaking his head. Since her return to London, Westley began to work at John's practitioner's office. She reserved cases for the evening, when she allowed herself to scratch the itch. "Ah, should I just leave her for you then?" he teased back, kissing her nose. "I'll do it, you know. If you ask nicely," he added, winking. Westley tossed her head back with a laugh. John grinned and he gave his watch a glance. "Time to get back to work. Don't worry about the office. Just finish the case before dinner this time, okay?"

"Restaurant at The Landmark Hotel on Marylebone Road," she recited, tapping a finger on John's nose. "8 o'clock, sharp, doctor," she smiled, pulling away and linking arms as they walked out. "Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson!" Westley called out as they walked out of the building.

The couple kissed before separating at the sidewalk. "Do _not_ be late!" John called out as Westley got in a separate cab. She waved a hand out of the window, smiling wide.

By the time Westley made it back to the house, the clock read 8 o'clock on the dot. "Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, sprinting to the bedroom and looking through the closet, pushing clothing aside. She gave a victory cry and pulled out a white dress, quickly slipping out of her usual button shirt, vest, and slacks outfit and sliding the dress on. She tore off her boots and socks, placed on the heels while hopping around to her dresser, and grabbed a gold pair of earrings.

"Purse, purse," she chanted, frantically looking around. "Ha!" Westley snatched up a gold clutch as she put her earrings on, sprinting out the door. She managed to remember to lock it up behind her before hailing another cab. "The Landmark Hotel. Marylebone Road, please," she said, opening her purse and pulling out a compact, working on her make-up as best as possible.

When the cab pulled up, she jumped out, shoving bills into the cabbies hands and dashing to the front door. She paused, fixing her curls and straightening out her dress before checking her phone. 8:29 p.m. "Shit!" She opened the door, looking around and spotting John. "I am so, so sorry," she said, sitting and having a sip of water while fanning herself. "It went on a bit, especially with the suspect refusing to admit anything until I shoved the evidence in his face. I hate when they try lying to me." She set her glass down, her eyes on John now. "Are you alright?"

"Me?" he asked, clearing his throat. "Yes, fine. I am _fine_." He smiled brightly, his eyes glued to hers.

"Did you pick out a wine?" Westley asked, giving a wide smile when John nodded. "I honestly never pegged you as a wine connoisseur." She picked up the menu, scanning it meticulously. "Hm. Right."

"Right," John echoed, clearing his throat. "You do remember I mentioned something in a text earlier? About not being late this time?" Westley looked up, blinking rapidly. "You… did actually read the message before responding, right?" Westley unconsciously chewed her lip, her head tilting slightly. John chuckled nervously, shaking his head. "I really need to stop texting you while you're on a case." Westley blushed again, taking her water glass again and taking a deep drink.

"I really am sorry," Westley said to John, laughing and biting her lip. "You know how I can get caught up. Let me see." She made to pull out her phone from her clutch, but John placed a hand over hers and she looked up, bright blue eyes on his.

John cleared his throat, his fingers now gripping hers. "Wes," he started, looking down at their hands as if for encouragement. "It has been a year, exactly, since we," he said, motioning between them. "And, I know it may not seem long, traditionally speaking. Then again, traditionally speaking, you don't do… well, what we do." Westley remained silent, her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. "That is. Well. As you know, the last couple of years haven't been easy. For either of us," he paused, thinking back. "But that first day we met." He stopped again, raising his gaze and locking eyes with the blonde. A smile tugged at his lips. "Yes, that first day, meeting you was the best thing that could have possibly happened to me."

"I agree," Westley said immediately. "I am the best thing that could've happened to you," she clarified, an impish grin surfacing. John burst out laughing, his fingers interlacing with hers. "Sorry. Go on."

John shook his head, his laughter fading as he gathered his thoughts again. "Well, no. That's, um," he paused again, smiling at her. "So, if you'll have me, Westley, could you see your way," he cleared his throat and Westley couldn't help a nervous giggle now. "If you could see your way to –" A shadow fell over the table, but the couple paid no heed until a voice interrupted.

"Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking," a French-accented voice said. Westley couldn't help but giggle again, covering her mouth. "It has all the qualities of the old, with some colour of the new."

An irritated look crossed John's eyes and Westley had to bite her lip to keep from crumbling into peals of laughter. The fake accent was atrocious and she couldn't believe John was falling for it. "Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend." Westley's smothered giggles died fast when she heard the choice of words, her face going white in seconds.

"Wes? Are you okay?" John asked, concerned. "No, look, seriously," John started again, frowning as he looked up to see the waiter. Westley sat, her whole body trembling now as the voice dropped the accent and resumed in a familiar tone. John froze, his eyes widening. Everything around them was blocked out, the only focus being the figure standing before the table.

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters," Sherlock said, tossing the reading glasses – ones Westley was sure he stole – onto the table. John looked back at the shivering blonde before his chin dropped to his chest, his own eyes filled with tears.

When John stood, he stumbled over his feet, grabbing onto the table. Westley couldn't snap out of her trance, not noticing as John straightened up. From the corner of her eye, Westley saw Sherlock extending his right hand as if for a shake. She turned her head slowly, looking at the dark-haired man from under her lashes, eyesight blurred by tears. John looked down at the table again, holding himself up with one arm.

The consulting detective looking between the two figures, too focused on John to worry about a blonde with a lowered face. "Well, short version," he started awkwardly. "Not dead."

At this, Westley stood, almost knocking her chair back. "Sister dear," he said, surprised when he got a good look at her face. "The blonde really, uh," he said, waving a finger over her face. "It changes your look. Did you gain weight? Your features are much rounder than I recall." Sherlock's eyes went from his sister to his best friend and a quick scan of both made something mentally click. "Oh, finally?" he asked, practically beaming. "I was a bit worried, when I saw you in India," Sherlock directed to Westley, a slight frown on his lips. "You sounded like a raving lunatic, running about in the streets."

His features turned anxious when John and Westley shot him livid looks. Westley's hands curled into fists at the mention of India and her breathing matched John's. "Bit mean, springing this on you both like that, I know," the Holmes brother continued. "Could have given you a heart attack; probably still will. But in my defence," he said with a nervous giggle now. "It was very funny." The fury emitting from the couple made the air electric. "Okay, it's not a great defence," Sherlock corrected, grabbing a napkin. "Excuse me," he said, dipping the cloth in Westley's water glass and wiping off the moustache. "Does, does yours rub off, too?" Sherlock asked offhandedly, though failing at keeping a smirk off his lips.

John's smile was anything but humorous. "Do you have any idea?" Westley exhaled at last, finding her voice, chest heaving. Her eyes burned, spilling out hot tears, but she couldn't look away from her brother, an unreasonable fear that he'd vanish before her eyes if she turned away for even a second. "Do you have _any_ idea what you did to us?"

Sherlock looked down at his shoes, like a scolded child. "Okay, I'm suddenly realizing I probably owe you two some sort of an apology." John's fist punched the table, and he hunched over it.

Westley took a deep breath, steadying her nerves now as she became mindful of the eyes from the fellow restaurant patrons. "All right. Okay. John?" she said softly, taking another deep breath before her eyes went to her soon-to-be fiancé. "Just keep – "

"Two years," John said in a whisper. "Two. Years," he repeated, shaking his head and trying to take a deep breath. "I thought," his voice was hoarse and he suddenly groaned, slumping over his hands again. Sherlock shifted awkwardly, aware this was not at all how he thought it would be. "I thought… you were dead. Hmm?" he looked up, his features distorted with pain. "Now, you let me grieve, hmm? You let _us_ grieve. How could you do that?" The detective bit his lip, his eyes still on the ground. " _How_?"

Sherlock forced himself to look up as John's breathing intensified. "Wait – before you do anything that you might regret," he said, holding a hand up. John suppressed another groan and Westley held her breath expectantly. Sherlock's finger ran over his upper lip. "Are you really going to keep that?"

The childish grin fell when Westley's open palm made sharp contact with Sherlock's cheek. Two seconds later, John knocked him on the ground, hands around Sherlock's throat as waiters tried to pry him off the detective. A host and the manager were holding back the youngest Holmes. Her teeth were bared and her neck and face were crimson as she shrieked curses at her brother in German.

Half an hour later, the trio sat at a café, John and Westley on one side, facing Sherlock. The consulting detective held his fingers splayed in a steeple before him while his best friend and sister glared at him, arms folded over their chests. "I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I'd invited Moriarty onto the roof," Sherlock started, his eyes on the wall behind the couple. "I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible. The first scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags," he ticked off. "Impossible. The angle was too steep. Secondly a system of Japanese wrestling – "

"You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick," John interrupted, shifting his legs.

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

Westley gave a sharp exhale. "We don't _care_ how you faked it, you idiot," the sister stated, crossing her legs. The youngest Holmes' wrath had turned to simple annoyance. "We want to know _why_."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, baffled. "Because Moriarty had to be stopped. You know this better than – " he stopped himself after he took note of John's expression. Clarity crossed his eyes. "Oh. 'Why' as in…" Sherlock lifted two fingers, pointing at his best friend and sister separately. They both gave an unnoticeable nod. "I see. Yes. 'Why?' That's a little more difficult to explain."

John's features darkened. "We've got all night."

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking away from them. "Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft's idea." At this, Westley let out a snarl, yanking her phone out of her purse. "Westley."

"So it was our darling brother's plan?" she hissed, anger rising again as she punched at the phone's buttons. "What, one criminal network you can't solve on your own and suddenly he's your only confidant?" Westley reread the text before pushing the send button, slamming her phone on the table. "Was he the only one?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a few seconds, and John's attention went from his fuming girlfriend to his struggling friend. "Couple of others," Sherlock forced out. John lowered his head, exhaling slowly as Westley gritted her teeth when her text alarm went off. She ignored it to listen to Sherlock's excuse. "It was a very elaborate plan – it _had_ to be. The next of the thirteen possibilities – "

"Who else?" John asked in a low voice, before lifting his eyes to Sherlock. "Who else knew?" Westley saw John, the way his whole body shook in rage. Her attention was caught by her phone's light and she read Mycroft's text. _He's alive. Isn't that enough?_ was his simple reply to her scathing text. Her eyes went over the message again and the anger dissipated at once. She placed a hand over John's shoulder, squeezing softly. It was as if she hadn't touched him at all, his eyes intent on Sherlock. " _Who_?" he demanded from the consulting detective.

"Molly," Sherlock finally answered.

John huffed and Westley barely managed to muffle the scoff that escaped her lips "Molly?" John asked. Westley remembered the skittishness of the woman when she visited her autopsy room before being exiled from London and she closed her eyes, chastising herself for missing it and chalking it up to Mycroft's first warnings.

Westley shook her head and scooted closer to John, pressing her hand firmly into his shoulder now. "John," she said, her voice low and gentle.

Still, her boyfriend paid no heed. "Molly Hooper – and _some_ of my homeless network, and that's all," Sherlock said with finality. Westley head snapped to Sherlock at this, her mouth agape.

John's back stiffened and he cleared his throat, looking at Westley who was now glowering at Sherlock without an ounce of pity in her eyes. "Okay," John said, shifting in his seat, spine straight. "So, just your brother, and Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps."

Sherlock chuckled at this. "No, no," he said. "Twenty-five at most!"

It took Westley and the café owner to tear John from Sherlock this time around. The three were now gathered in a kebab shop, Sherlock holding a napkin to his bottom lip. Westley noticed him wince when he saw the blood on the napkin, before applying it back to his mouth. John leaned against a glass display, gathering his wits. "Seriously, it's not a joke?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to his upper lip. "You're – you're not really keeping it?"

Westley's eyes widened as John cleared his throat and she shot daggers at Sherlock while standing a bit behind her boyfriend. "Yes," John finally replied.

"You're sure?" Sherlock pressed, his eyes studied John's features.

"Wes likes it," John replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherlock tilted his head. "Oh, she definitely does not."

"She does," John shot back, shoulders rising.

"Does not," Sherlock stated and both glanced briefly at Westley.

John did a double-take when he noticed her scrounged up nose, though. She tried to make an excuse but the only thing escaping her lips were incoherent sounds. "Oh!" John said, raising a hand to cover the moustache. "Brilliant."

"I'm sorry," she pleaded, placing a hand on his arm. "I really am. I loved the beard, though! This one – I just didn't know how to tell you. You seemed so proud of it!" Westley finished, fingers digging into this arm, before glowering at Sherlock. "Charming as always, brother dear," she spat, trying to get John to look at her. "We've really missed this!" The trio was silent for a minute.

" _One word_ , Sherlock," John breathed, stepping up to Sherlock and getting in his face. "That is _all_ we would've needed. One word to let us know that you were alive." John stepped back, his hand rubbing his mouth and chin.

The consulting detective spoke quietly. "I've nearly been in contact _so_ many times, John. In India," Sherlock started towards his sister and stopped himself, shaking his head. "But." John laughed in disbelief. "I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet."

Both Westley and John snapped at this. "What?!" they chorused.

Sherlock looked nervously between the two. "Well, you know, let the cat out of the bag."

"Oh, so this is _our_ fault?!" John said, stepping up again. Westley laughed now, skepticism in her voice. "Why can't you understand this was wrong – that this is actually the way we're _supposed_ to react to your little 'surprise'?!"

"Over-reacting," Sherlock muttered.

"Over-reacting?!" John echoed now, voice raised. Westley slapped Sherlock's arm. "Over-reacting. So you fake your own death," John continued, his voice rising in volume while Sherlock tried to hush him. "And you waltz in here, large as bloody life," he said, ignoring Sherlock's glances around the kebob shop. "But I'm not supposed to have a problem with that, no," he adds, his voice now dangerously low. "Because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly _**okay thing to do**_!"

Sherlock was shouting now as well. "Shut up, John! I don't want _everyone_ knowing I'm still alive!"

Westley didn't think John could hear himself still screaming. "Oh, so it's still a secret, is it?"

"Yes, it's still a secret!" Sherlock replied just as loud. The detective took a look around, looking at the other customers in the shop before nonchalantly speaking again. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

John spoke through gritted teeth, his voice booming still. "Swear to God!"

Westley tried to remain furious, but the exchange between the men had her on the verge of laughter, the type that wouldn't die out until you got an ache in your belly and your lungs stung. Her brain fully understood that Sherlock was back, truly was _back_. She held her clutch before her face, hiding the wide smile, as John finally took a look of his own around the store. When he noticed the other customers staring, he backed down from Sherlock, leaning against the glass displays, his arm brushing against Westley's. "You're a fuckin' bastard," Westley finally spoke up, her eyes bright. "I should be the one tearing you a new one, you know, with your little stunt in India."

"Right," he muttered, apologetic, until he caught a glimpse of the bright smile she concealed. "Really, work on those emotions, baby sister," he sighed, waving a hand at her. "London is in danger, John," he said, his eyes solely back on his best friend. "There's an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help." John looked up, amazed, before turning to Westley.

The blonde strained not to giggle at the expression that crossed John's face, knowing it would only set him off again. "My help?" John half-laughed, his surprise evident.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, studying John's reaction and thinking it one of genuine happiness. Westley noticed Sherlock's mistake and couldn't help the snort that escaped before she slapped her hand over her mouth. Neither men paid any heed to her. "You _have_ missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the world," Sherlock was interrupted when John grabbed the lapels of his suit. Westley's eyes widened as John reared his head back before smashing it against Sherlock's face.

Five minutes after the head-butt, the Holmes siblings found themselves outside, standing close together, while John tried to hail a cab a few meters away. "I don't understand," he said, his voice nasally as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his head tilted back. His free hand held a napkin against his bleeding nostrils. "I said I'm sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" Westley laughed softly beside her brother.

"You don't know anything about human nature, darling brother," she sighed, sparing a glance at John before turning to Sherlock.

Her brother lowered his head and locked eyes with her. "Mmm, nature? No. Human?" he paused, a smirk playing on his lips. "No."

Westley rolled her eyes, taking the napkin and gently cleaning his upper lip. "I forgive you," she said plainly, startling Sherlock. "If there's one thing you and Mycroft are absolutely better at than me, it is not knowing how to apologize," she said, handing Sherlock back the napkin. "I'll talk him 'round."

"You will?" he asked, his gleaming eyes analyzing every one of her features.

"If the future Mrs. Watson isn't able to do something as simple as reconciling two friends," Westley smirked, tapping her brother's nose with her left hand and eliciting a painful groan. "Then I really should give up deducing." Sherlock immediately looked down at her hand, then back at John, closing his eyes and exhaling sharply. "You've always had terrible timing, brother dear. And it seems this time around, contrary to yours and Mycroft's insisting, my emotions are the best tool for the job."

John's voice called out to the blonde. "Wes!" The woman made a quick motion and whirled back to her brother.

"Give my love to Hooper, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson," Westley said, tiptoeing and placing a kiss on Sherlock's cheek before pivoting and heading straight to John. He held the door open before climbing in after her, leaving a stunned and bleeding Sherlock standing on the sidewalk. The couple was silent for a bit, John fuming and Westley looking out the window, a trace of a smirk on her lips.

"Can you believe his nerve?" John finally asked, indignant.

Westley looked round, smiling now. "Yes."

"What?" John asked, confused.

The blonde placed a hand over his. "It's Sherlock, darling. We honestly shouldn't have been that shocked or upset." She turned her head away and looked out the window. John narrowed his eyes before looking away, completely bewildered by the lack of emotion Westley now displayed. "May I have my ring now?" she asked abruptly. "We both know Sherlock's bad timing wasn't intentional this time around." Westley turned back to John, whose mouth was now ajar. She extended her left hand, palm down and fingers splayed. "Please?"

The doctor gave a choked laughed, pulling the box out of his coat and turning it in his hands. "This is not how I planned it," he exhaled, using a hand to rub his temple. "Far from it, I assure you." His eyes suddenly shot up at her. "Wait, what gave it away?"

Westley gave him a coy smile. "Darling, that journal is replicated word for word on your blog," she said with a giggle. "Mrs. Hudson's teary goodbye didn't help, since she already knew about our relationship and living arrangements. The location you picked yelled engagement. And I saw you place something in your pocket when I arrived at the restaurant, a little too hurried if you ask me," she winked at him. "Now, give me my ring!"

John shook his head, his features softening as he laughed. "Westley Parker Holmes," he started, pulling the ring out of the box and gently grasping the blonde's hand. "Will you?" he asked simply, his eyes a warm shade of grey the moment he looked into Westley's ocean blue ones. The Holmes sister watched as he slowly slid the jewel onto her ring finger.

She admired the simple diamond ring, her eyes welling with tears. John drew Westley to him, pressing his warm mouth against hers, and the woman closed her eyes to relish the feel of his arm slipping around her waist. When she pulled away, a bright smile surfaced. "You wasted your time asking, you know," she smiled, speaking against his lips and running her hand up his neck and to his hair. "You had the answer the day I stood at your front door."


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: I'll be going back and replacing a few of the chapters because I am a terrible writer who does not edit her work properly and only realizes this when she goes back to reread her work out of boredom. Hopefully, I'll catch any inconsistencies as well. It's been a while since this has been updated anyway, so maybe you can take that chance to refresh your memory?_

 _Stay safe, y'all._

* * *

"'His movements were so silent. So furtive, he reminded me of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent'," Westley read from her tablet while sitting in bed. The dramatic flair in her voice caught her fiancé's attention.

John came out of the small ensuite bathroom, half his face covered with shaving foam. "Stop it," he said, pointing a clean finger at Westley.

The blonde giggled, her eyes glued to the screen. "I haven't read this in years," she said, scrolling down. "'I couldn't help thinking what an amazing criminal he'd make if he turned his talents against the law'," Westley continued the theatrical reading before pausing, lips pursed. "I really had forgotten how great of a writer you are, Doctor Watson," the blonde said, looking up to find John giving her a look. "Oh. Oh, really?"

"What?" John's features showed confusion. "You've seen me having a wash before."

Westley placed the tablet on the night table, crawling towards John. "You're _shaving_ it off."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, you hate it," he said as he stepped to the bed.

" _Sherlock_ hates it," Westley corrected, resting her chin in her hands as she settled on her stomach.

"Apparently everyone hates it," John muttered, causing Westley to giggle again.

"Should I be worried?" Westley teased, scooting to the end of the bed before rolling over, letting her head hang over the edge. "Was Mrs. Hudson right?" She gasped suddenly, clasping her hands over her chest. "It was the Sherlock coat, wasn't it? You do ask me to wear it often."

John leaned over her as she laughed, her pale skin slowly turning pink from being upside down. "Oh, you're hilarious." He gave her a peck on the lips, earning a squeal as she wiped at the shaving cream afterwards.

"You're going to see him," Westley stated with a sly smirk on her face.

John pinched her hip playfully, producing a second squeal. "No, I'm going to work."

The blonde gave his hand a slap. "You're going to see him after work," she countered, turning and sitting quickly, giving a soft "oh" when the blood rushed back. Westley earned herself another eye roll before John walked back into the bathroom. "Six months. Gods!" she whined, though her eyes had a twinkle in them. "Six months of bristly kisses for me, then His Nibs shows up," she had to stop since she was giggling so hard.

"I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes!" John declared from the bathroom while smothering more shaving cream on. Westley leaned back on her arms, her lips twisting slightly.

"You know," she said, thoughtfully. "We could sell that. Plaster it on a t-shirt!" She grinned again when she saw John smile.

"Shut up."

"Or what, doctor?" Westley asked with a cheeky grin on her face. John turned to her, watching as she crossed her legs, the long shirt falling back towards her hips and giving him a view. John's eyes wandered from the tip of her toes to the blonde curls framing her features.

"Or I'll marry you."

Her coy smirk faded into a warm smile. "Well, even if you didn't want to, you _have_ to now. You forget who my brothers are. I've got one who's got Queen and country covering my back and another that can kill you without leaving a trace!" John laughed as he rinsed his hands before picking up the razor. "Welcome to the Holmes family." The doctor gave her a look before starting to work on the facial hair. "Oh, sorry. It's supposed to be the other way around, right?" she giggled, turning back onto her stomach and reaching for the tablet. "You should pick it up again, blogging."

There was a scoff from John as he continued with his facial care. Westley rose from the bed, stretching her arms to the ceiling then reaching for her toes. She sauntered over to the bathroom, running a finger down the spine of the doctor, making him jump. "I'm handling a sharp object near my face, darling," he warned, eying her through the mirror.

Westley hummed, turning on the water before sliding out of the long shirt. She didn't need to glance back to know her fiancé was studying her through the mirror. The blonde smirked, sliding the straps of her bra down and unhooking it from the back. She did a little dance before she let the bra fall to the ground. The sound of something falling into the sink made her grin widen. "Focus on your money maker, dear," Westley teased before stepping into the shower.

An hour later, the couple walked into the surgery, Westley taking a seat at the reception desk while John walked into his office. The blonde twirled in the chair for the first half hour, until their first client walked in. She knocked at John's door before looking in. "Mr. Summerson," she said, biting her lip.

"Right," he answered with a smile, looking up from an appointment book.

"Undescended testicle," she added, grinning at him.

The smile faltered. "Right," he sighed, shaking his head. Westley tried to keep her giggles under wraps as she guided the man into the examination room. The morning went by slower than usual to Westley as she noted down appointments and showed patients into John's office. Her notebook contained pages full of different doodles, most consisting of cases she solved or cases John worked on. The usual itch was growing; she chewed on her lip, eyeing the computer screen.

Mr. Blake, the current patient, was in with a case of piles. The blonde's lips puckered slightly before her fingers tapped on the keyboard, immediately pulling up news sites and online tabloids. Her eyes scanned through it all, brow furrowed.

A squeak from a hinge advised the Holmes sister of the end of a session, and she quickly hid all windows, returning to her doodle. She focused on one in particular, that of a giant hound. John assured Mr. Blake he would be okay and said goodbye, before ambling over to his fiancée's desk. "Hm. I didn't know you could sketch," he said, angling the notebook towards him. "Will you still be going out with Janine?"

"There are many of my talents you are still unaware of, doctor," Westley replied with a smirk. "And yes, I am. I do believe she is a lot more excited than I am about wedding planning."

John chuckled, leaning down and kissed her, lingering slightly. "Have you found a dress you like?" he asked when standing straight again.

Westley scrounged her nose. "Not really. Why is there a need for so many frills?" she sighed, twirling her pencil around her fingers. "Maybe I'll settle for the white one I wore for our engagement dinner."

The doctor rolled his eyes, though his smile never faded. "Draw one then," he mentioned, pointing at her sketchbook. "Have it made, if modern fashion irritates you so much."

"Huh," the blonde said, flipping over a page while biting down on the end of her pencil. "That's not a bad idea, Doctor Watson," she smiled, looking up at him. He winked at her and before he could add anything cheeky, a new patient came in. "Good afternoon," Westley greeted, setting the sketch book and pencil aside as an elderly man came in. John retired back to his examination room as Westley took all the man's details. "Right then, one moment, Mr. Szikora."

Like usual, John greeted her knock seated at his desk. "Mr. Szikora, with, uh, burning," she said, stepping into the office away from the patient's view. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing again. "Burning down around here," Westley was able to continue, motioning to her crotch. John gave her a pointed look and the woman immediately cleared her throat. "Right, come on in, Mr. Szikora!" she called back, opening the door wide as she smiled.

Closing the door after the patient, she allowed herself to giggle softly while taking her seat. She clicked on the mouse, bringing back up the tabloids. Finding nothing of interest, she switched her tactic, hacking NCIS. A slight hum escaped her pursed lips, as she studied a case of a dead American petty officer. She smiled, noting the name of the man in charge.

"It's not as good as your French. Not as good as your French! It's not even a good disguise, Sherlock!" Westley snapped up at the sounds coming from the office. The voices dropped back to a garbled sound. Westley tilted her head, a slight smirk on her features. She cleared her throat and stepped towards the door, opening without knocking this time. John looked up, his hands still working on placing the man's beanie back on his head. His eyes were blank and Westley used all possible self-control to keep her face stoic. "It's fine." The blonde gave a slight nod before closing the door again. She walked to the restroom and calmly closed the door behind her before utterly losing it, laughing until tears rolled down her cheeks.

Westley was back at her desk before John came out with Mr. Szikora. "You have yourself a _wonderful_ day," the woman said with a bright smile. Her twinkling eyes turned to John once the old man was out the door. "Oh, darling," she tried to start, but the giggles were back. "Please go see Sherlock. I'm begging you now." John's face turned red and his hand roughly rubbed at his eyes. "It's not going to kill you."

"No, but it might kill him," he sighed, letting his hand fall to his side. "Right, how many more appointments?"

His fiancée flipped the appointment book open, giving a short hum. "Four, though the next one isn't until an hour from now." Westley glanced at her watch. "Do you think you're going to be okay until the last one?" she asked, batting her eyelashes at him while biting her lip. "I mean, without thinking it's Sherlock provoking you?" John gave her a pointed look as he walked to the entrance door, flipping the sign to show the office would be closed for lunch.

"Office, future Mrs. Watson," John said, picking up a lunch bag from beside Westley's desk with two fingers only. "I need anti-bacterial." The couple walked into the room, John immediately heading to the bottle pump on his desk. "How long do you think you'll be with Janine?" John asked, rubbing the anti-bacterial solution between his fingers. "And should I make you dinner?"

"Oh, please do," Westley said, unpacking the lunch for both of them as she sat on the patient's seat. "She wants to visit a vegan restaurant. One that apparently doesn't include pasta," she added with a pout as she poured out tea. "Depending on her level of excitement, I should be home around 8 or 9."

John stepped up to her, placing his hands on each of the chair's arms. " _Your_ excitement for this dinner is palpable," he said, leaning down and placing a prolonged kiss. "Don't keep me waiting."

Westley smiled up at him, "Don't keep your hopes up," she said, pulling him down and kissing him deeper, her arms around his neck. "What if your fiancée shows ups while I'm there?" she teased. John laughed, carrying her and settling her on his lap. Westley unwrapped her arms from his neck, grabbed a Tupperware and stabbed a piece of chicken, holding it out to John. "I'm really considering designing my own dress," she hummed, watching John chew with a blissed out expression on his face.

Her fiancé grabbed another fork and offered her a piece of broccoli. "I'm sure you'll come up with something that yells Holmes," he joked, his eyes on her as she parted her lips for him. She dropped him a wink as she chewed.

"I was thinking a simple halter dress. A few beads here and there," she started thinking aloud after swallowing the bit of food. "Gods, I should've followed everyone else's lead and started as a little girl," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Weddings are terribly hard to plan. Why do people insist on doing this again?"

"Because we like showing everyone we're grossly in love and we're rich enough to spend money however we want," John answered instantly, causing Westley to burst into laughter. "Or, because we're happy and shit."

Their lunch hour slipped by between conversation and the meal, both heavily sighing when John turned the front door sign over to show they were back in. While John dealt with patients, Westley exchanged emails with some old contacts in the States, in hopes of having them the day of her wedding. They were the closest friends Westley had and she was crossing her fingers that her hopes wouldn't be dashed.

Closing time came round without any more scenes from the examination room. When the last patient walked out, Westley went into John's office, sliding on her jacket and scarf. "I'm off," she smiled, leaning and placing a kiss on his cheek. John gave a soft "Mmm" while jotting down the last of his notes. "You're going, right?"

"Yes," he said, rolling his eyes. "For not being Mrs. Watson yet, you sure do nag," he joked, earning a pinch on the arm. "Kidding, kidding," he winced, rubbing at his arm.

"Right then, I'm late for Janine," she said, planting a second kiss on his lips. "Save me food." They exchanged goodbyes as Westley walked out of the office.

The meet-up with her friend dragged out more than Westley imagined and she was walking along the sidewalk, looking for a cab, when she found herself in front of Sherlock's flat. She grinned when she saw his silhouette, violin in hand. A text alert diverted her attention and the smile slipped off her face when she read the text.

 _Save souls now!_

 _John or James Watson?_

Another alert went off and she flipped to the next message.

 _Saint or Sinner?  
James or John?  
The more is Less?_

Her mind quickly picked out the pattern and she rushed to the flat's door, banging on it. "Oh! Lee!" Mrs. Hudson greeted, but the blonde quickly rushed past her and up the stairs. "Well that isn't very polite, dear!"

"I'm sorry, I just," Westley started, half-turning while climbing to the second floor. "I think someone's got John." Sherlock faced her when she walked in.

"What's wrong?"

Westley's mobile was still in her hand. "Someone sent me this. At first I thought it was just those religious ad bots, you know, spam, but it's not. It's a skip-code." Sherlock turned his attention to the phone as she pulled up the first message.

It didn't take long for him to figure it out. "First word, then every third. Save. John. Watson." His eyes figured out the second part in less than a second and his hand dropped the bag of chips it was holding before he raced downstairs. "Now!"

"What is Saint James the Less?" Westley called, right on his heels.

"A church. Twenty minutes by car," he said as the pair bolted out into the street. "Did you drive here?"

"Walked. John took the car to come see you," she said, her eyes scanning the vehicles passing by. "It should be here, somewhere."

"It's too slow. It's too slow," Sherlock growled, pacing in the middle of the road. A car approached and swerved around him at the last minute, laying on the horn.

Westley yanked her brother's arm to face him. "Sherlock, what the hell are we waiting for?"

His eyes were still on the road. "This." The detective stepped directly into the path of a motorcycle, holding up his hand. The rider slammed on the brakes, skidding inches away from Sherlock. Seconds later, the siblings raced down the streets, wearing the stolen helmets of the motorcycle owner and passenger. Westley placed the church Sherlock mentioned and calculated, just as her brother was doing, it would take about ten minutes to reach. Another alert went off and Westley managed to check it.

 _Getting warmer, Ms. Holmes._

 _You have about ten minutes._

"Shit," she muttered, her eyes scanning the roads before them while her mind thought of the millions of things that could go wrong. "What are they going to do to him?" she asked Sherlock, a hand gripping his waist while she tried to put her mobile away.

Sherlock's voice was barely audible. "I don't know." They rode on before another text went in. This time, Westley held it up to Sherlock so he could read it as well.

 _8 minutes_

 _and counting…_

Both Holmes gritted their teeth as the detective accelerated. When they hit a roadblock, the panic bubbled in Westley's throat. "Sherlock." He didn't give her a chance to say another word, revving the bike and making a sharp left turn, leading them through a park, straight down a flight of stairs. Another message came through.

 _Better hurry_

 _things are_

 _hotting up here…_

Sherlock twisted the bike's handles, but he was blocked as they crossed a bridge, a slow-moving lorry in their way. Another alert.

 _Stay of execution._

 _you've got two_

 _more minutes_

Westley inhaled sharply and Sherlock made another sharp turn, riding through a pedestrian underpass. He forced the bike up a steep flight of stairs and out onto the street again, bringing them alongside a fence. It surrounded the park by the church.

 _What a shame_

 _Ms. Holmes._

 _John is quite a Guy!_

"Sherlock!" Westley cried out, showing him the text. The two faced the park again, a crowd surrounding a Guy Fawkes dummy starting to catch on fire.

"Oh my God," Sherlock said, accelerating around the square towards the only gap in the fence surrounding the park. The onlookers continued to cheer around the fire and the two Holmes siblings suddenly heard a shout, the celebrating screams dying as they heard another from the bonfire. "Jump off!" Sherlock yelled, and Westley obeyed in time, her brother dumping the bike and racing to the fire.

The two tossed the helmets to the side before rushing the crowd. "Move! Move! Move! Move!" Sherlock screamed, pushing people aside as Westley followed close behind. They reached the front of the crowd and didn't stop, quickly dashing to the bonfire. Sherlock began tossing wood aside, joined a split second after by Westley, both siblings calling out John's name.

A reply came, followed by coughs. "John!" Westley cried out, singeing her hands on the log she flung to the side. "John! Get out, John!" Sherlock crouched, his eyes intense, before locating his friend. Without a thought, he plunged his arms straight into the fire, hurling the kindling aside and creating a path. He reached in one last time, grabbing ahold of John and pulling him out and away from the inferno.

The crown stared in horror, speechless. "John? John!" Sherlock said, looking down at his friend before patting his face. Westley dropped beside him, hand over her mouth and eyes wide at the sight of her beloved.

"John," she whimpered and she allowed her shaking hand to grab his while the other hovered over the blood on his forehead. The siblings watched the doctor's eyes shut and open.

"Hey, John," Sherlock called softly. He looked up at his sister. "Come on," he said, pulling John up. Westley stood in shaky legs, but stiffened them up as she placed John's arm around her shoulder. "We've got you."

A man from the crowd came to their help, taking Westley's place when she stumbled over her feet. "Thank you," she muttered, falling a few steps behind as Sherlock and the man headed to the street to look for a cab. Westley pulled out her phone, stopping in her tracks.

No message.

She reread the sent messages, her mind digging deep into past memories, ones she wished to forget altogether. "Westley," Sherlock called back, his blue eyes intense on her. The blonde shoved the mobile in her pocket and trotted to catch up. "Nothing."

"Nothing," Westley echoed as a cab came to a stop before the curb. She checked John's pulse after seeing him passed out. "He'll be okay. Right?" She took her fiancé's arm from around the stranger and thanked him. Westley watched him walk away. "Who did this, Sherlock?" She wrapped her arm around John's waist, her eyes studying her future husband now, watched the blood begin to dry on the side of his face. They placed the unconscious doctor into the cab, following him after. "When I find that bastard, I swear – "

"You will do nothing of the sorts," he said sharply, his cold gaze on her now. "I will deal with this." They rode in silence towards the flat to pick up the car, then headed to Westley and John's home. When they arrived, Sherlock helped her with John, settling him into their bed.

"Find the bastard, Sherlock," Westley whispered fiercely as she cleaned the wounds on John's face. "Find him before I do."


End file.
